


So Far And Out Of Sight

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Captain Charming - Freeform, Captain Cobra - Freeform, Captain Cobra Swan, F/M, Snook, Swan Believer, it's all there, season 3 canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-12-06 23:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: A post 3x20 canon divergence: Zelena's portal never opens, and so Emma never has the revelation about missing her parents and Storybrooke being her home. She takes Henry back to New York, just like she's planned, determined to go back to their life during the missing year. But with her blissful ignorance gone and Henry being less than cooperative, it's not as easy as she thought. And then someone comes knocking at her door, determined to make it even less easy...





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1:**

_Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever gonna make it home again_

_It's so far and out of sight_

 

Henry's voice is that of a petulant teenager, which makes it impossibly easy for Emma to brush him off as such and tell herself he's just stubborn, and he'll get over it soon, just as she got over it. Well, not that there's anything she actually _had_ to get over.

“But why do we have to go?” he demands to know for the fifth time as the old yellow bug makes mile after mile on the road to New York City. “Our family's in Storybrooke, it's our home!”

Emma sighs. “Henry, it's not like we will never see them again,” she tries to soothe. “We can go back and visit anytime!”

The boy just huffs scornfully, “ _Visit!”_

She points out, “Our home has been in New York for the last year, and it was good! You loved it there! You had a great school, friends, a big city, we had _everything_!” She cringes a little inwardly, thinking she's sounding like a used car dealer trying to con someone into buying the worst seller ever. Briefly, she contemplates if she should mention the library, which has always been one of Henry's favorite places, but then she decides against it; that would be too transparent.

“Yeah,” Henry snaps in response, “we had everything – except our family!”

“We were _happy_!” she almost pleads.

“Repeating it over and over doesn't make it true,” he states dryly and with an uncomfortable logic.

“But it _is_ true!” she claims and doesn't realize that _she's_ the one whose voice assumes a petulant tone now.

“Because we didn't know any better, Mom!” he replies in an exasperated voice, almost as if _he's_ being the reasonable parent, and _she_ the stubborn teen. “It was all _fake!_ ”

Emma's hands grip the wheel, feeling the need to hold on to something solid, something that doesn't threaten to slip through her fingers at any moment, like most things she cherished have done sooner or later in the past. “Our memories were fake,” she finally admits, trying to change her tactics, because honesty always worked with Henry, “But our life was _not_! It was real, and it was good!” She realizes she's repeating herself, and yet, she doesn't get through to her son, not even remotely. “Henry, you deserve a good life without any... magical threats appearing out of the blue!” she argues. “A normal life, like a normal kid.”

“But I don't want that!” he shoots back. “It's not me... it's not _us_!”

“But it should be!” she insists. “It's better for you.”

His head snaps around, his brown eyes piercing her, she can feel it, even if hers are set on the road ahead. “Pretending to be somebody else?” he asks, and for a twelve-year-old he's nailing the sarcastic tone pretty well; she can practically hear him add an acid _really?_ “Ah. I see. You're doing this _for me_ , right?” he inquires. “You want what's best for me?”

Emma is too eager to make him finally see things her way to recognize the trap and stumbles right into it, head first. “Of course I do, kid!”

He nods bitterly. “Know where I've heard that before?”

For a second she closes her eyes when she realizes her mistake and understands immediately where he's aiming at. “Henry...”

“From my other mom!” he snaps.

Emma shakes her head. “That's not fair, you can't compare–”

“But it's _exactly_ the same!” Henry interrupts. “Don't you see that? _She_ always said she wanted what was best for _me_ , but she just wanted to keep me from finding out the truth about the curse, so she could keep everyone in misery, just like she wanted them to be. She wanted what was best for _her_. And so do you!”

“That's not true!” She knows he's unfair and exaggerating, because he's angry at her, because he doesn't want this... but his words still hurt. Because of course what she's doing couldn't be farther from what Regina did to him, and yet... if she's honest, she can't deny there's a certain... pattern.

“Of course it's true!” he insists. “You're doing this because you're scared to stay! Because you're scared to belong somewhere, with someone!”

 _God, that kid is too smart for his age. Way too smart._ “You and me, _we_ belong together!” Emma tells him firmly. “And we will be!”

He huffs impatiently. “You know what I mean. You're so afraid that people will hurt you and that you lose the people you love, that you don't let anybody in in the first place.” Emma is completely taken aback at his words that are just too close to home, and she remembers what Mary Margaret once said to her, before they knew they were mother and daughter. _That wall of yours – it may keep out pain, but it also may keep out love._ “You know what?” Henry continues angrily. “You don't need people to abandon you and make you miserable, you do that all by yourself, because you always push everyone away, like you did with me at first!”

Emma flinches, overflowing with guilt. “Oh kid... I promise, I will never push you away.”

“This is not about me,” he tells her decidedly, “and you know it.” He snorts. “I'll tell you what's not fair. Forcing me to leave our home and our family, just because _you're_ a coward.”

Now that is a sucker punch, if she ever felt one. “I–”

But Henry is apparently done talking, because he abruptly turns away from her, ostentatiously popping in his ear plugs, and ignores her for the rest of the drive. Helplessly, Emma grips the wheel and fixes her eyes on the road.

Sure, she knew before that it wouldn't be easy, that Henry didn't want to leave Storybrooke. That he thought after defeating Zelena they would of course pick up their old life, and everything would go back to normal... except, there _never_ had been anything _normal_ where their life in Storybrooke was concerned. Living in Storybrooke meant madness, stumbling from one magical crisis into the next, struggling to defeat one villain just to find out there was already another one lurking around the corner. It meant having to deal with constant threats to their happiness, her son's life. Having his heart almost crushed by Peter Pan, who also happened to be his great-grandfather? Being almost choked to death by the freaking _Wicked Witch of the West_? How could anyone in their right mind think of preferring such a life over the one they had in New York for the past year, with everything the big city could offer, schools, bars, friends, stores, multiplexes, people who knew nothing about the feeling of someone else's hand in your chest, cold fingers wrapped around your heart.

No, she's doing the right thing, she's sure about that. Her son deserves a normal, happy life. Heck, _she_ deserves that, too. She knows it's gonna be a rough start, because of course Henry is confused, hurt, all in all a stubborn teenager; but once they'll have settled back in and everything's gone back to their normal daily routine, he'll realize it, too, and even if it will take him a little longer to _admit_ it and accept it, he will get there – and then they'll be again where they were before that unnerving man knocked on their door, dressed from head to toe in black leather and confidence.

Emma rolls her eyes at herself; she doesn't even want to go _there_ , doesn't want to replay their last real conversation in her head, at that bench with his eyes full of melancholy and his voice tinged with brokenness when he asked her if she didn't care at all about her parents... _or anyone in this town?_ Of course she knew what he was talking about, _whom_ he was talking about. And _of course she cared._ When she told him she had to do what was right for her and Henry, he was surprisingly fast to give up, suddenly leaning back and putting physical distance between them she could almost feel in her bones.

“Of course you have to do what you have to do,” he replied matter-of-factly, all vulnerability gone from his voice, and without being aware of it, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I hope you find what you're looking for, Swan,” he finally told her with sincerity in his tone before pointing to the storybook still resting in her lap. “Do me a favor, please, and give that back to your lad.”

“Sure,” she murmured, “thank you. For understanding.”

He nodded one last time before he turned around and walked away, leaving her to her thoughts. She knew it was silly, but she had expected him to be a little more persistent; but apparently he knew when a cause was lost, and... well. It was better this way. She knew she'd already have to deal with her parents', her son's, and Regina's disapproval for her decision. She didn't need Hook's sad eyes to follow her for the time left.

She saw him only one more time – _was that really only an hour ago?_ – when a few people had come together on Main Street to say goodbye to her and Henry.

“Fare better than last time, Swan,” he said and nodded curtly before he stepped back from the car, and a minute later he was fading from her view when she drove out of town and towards the town line to leave it all behind for good this time.

And now she's here in her car with Henry, heading to a new life. She _should_ be excited. She _should_ feel good. She doesn't; not yet. But she'll get there, of course she will.

***

It was the strangest feeling when he saw her trademark yellow vessel depart – like a déjà-vû, but then again, not quite. The last time he'd seen her leave Storybrooke, she had been forced to by Pan's curse, hadn't wanted to leave her family behind, her friends – _him_. Had protested that she wasn't done yet. And he had provided her with that extra bit of strength, had tried to make it easier for her, to lighten up things – and had even dared to hint at his feelings, feelings that had scared and confused even him. He'd offered reassurance, and she'd gladly accepted it with that teary-eyed _“Good”_.

But today? Today was different. No curse or threat was driving her out of town – she left because she _wanted_ to. Went away willingly, _eagerly_ even, eager to run. Killian knows she didn't leave because Storybrooke doesn't feel like home for her – he knows she left because it _does_. Even if she doesn't like it, she's still an open book to him, now maybe more than ever before. And when she tried to sell him her story about not being a part of any of it, about running until she'd find a place she'd just _miss_ after leaving? Oh, she knows bloody well that she's an integral part of this magical microcosm named Storybrooke, has been for a long time. But her walls that always bring her to push away the people she loves, to run from them, won't allow her to accept it. He knows he was right when he told her two days ago that she was afraid to stay because she could see a future in Storybrooke, a happy one. But she wasn't ready to hear it then, and she isn't ready to accept it now. So, she needs to run.

He knew any display of feelings from him would have made her feel uncomfortable, and she didn't need any reassurance or encouragement from him, like last time, and so, he didn't provide it. She claimed she was having no regrets leaving everything behind, and he wasn't going to give her any regrets now – she was going to have to come by them the hard way. He just gave her a short nod and told her almost casually to fare better than last time, before he stepped back like everyone else and let her go.

He's not completely certain now that it's not wishful thinking on his part, but he _might_ have caught the slightest hint of disappointment flashing across her face, just like the day before when he accepted her statement of having to do what was best for her and Henry. Even though he hates the thought of having given her the impression he's giving up on her, he knows it has to be this way.

But this isn't over; another reason because this felt like a déjà-vû only to a certain extent is that _this_ time – unlike one year ago – he knows he will see her again, and soon.

With a sigh – because he's sure this isn't going to be a pleasant conversation – he raises his hook to knock at the pristine white door of the Queen's mansion.

The moment she opens the door he can see she's in a foul mood. _Wonderful_.

“You!” she huffs. “What do you want?”

Due to the circumstances _his_ temper is dangerously short, too, but a glimpse on her slightly puffy eyes softens his annoyance about her rudeness, and he just replies calmly, “I came to seek advice.”

Regina waves her hand dismissively. “Seek elsewhere, pirate,” she spits. “I'm not in the mood. In case you haven't noticed, I lost my son today.” Her stare is piercing him. “ _Again_.” Her hand grips the handle of the door, ready to slam it in his face.

Now, her rudeness and venom he can take, being already used to it, but he honestly has _no time_ for the whiny self-pity everyone else seems to put up with and cater to so effortlessly.

“Ah yes, right, I forgot,” he snarls, his voice as hard as the steel of his hook, “ _your_ pain is always the hardest to bear, compared to everyone else's.” Her eyebrows shoot up at his cutting tone, and she stops mid-move, staring at him incredulously, but he isn't done yet. “Sorry for disturbing you, Your Majesty,” the sarcasm in his voice is accentuated by the feral baring of his upper teeth, “I'm sure the prince and Snow White will try their best to help, even if _they_ lost their daughter, too – _again_.” He underlines the last word with a sharp head tilt and then whirls around, his leather coat swooshing behind him.

Regina wakes from her stupor and rolls her eyes – at the pirate's dramatics, and a bit also at herself. That has happened on occasion lately, and it surprises her every time. Self-critique is not something she's used to.

“Hook, wait,” she calls after him, the annoyance in her voice mixed with something like genuine concern. He roots to the spot and looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in question. She sighs. “What do you want?” she asks again, but this time there's no edge to her voice, and she steps aside, opening the door a little further, motioning her head towards the hall inside in a reluctant invite.

He hesitates for a mere second, before he fully turns around again and steps inside, acknowledging her gesture with a curt nod. He waits for her to close the door and turn to face him.

“When you cast the first Dark Curse,” he begins without further ado, “I wasn't affected, as you know. I came over with your mother, after Emma broke the curse.” Briefly, a shadow flickers over her face when she remembers her mother's time in Storybrooke, and what a fatal chain of events she'd set in motion. “And this latest curse,” he continues, “well, I outran it.”

Regina frowns. “You outran a _curse_ ,” she echoes doubtfully.

He tilts his head. “I'm a hell of a captain,” he informs her smoothly, and she rolls her eyes again. “Anyway,” he goes on, “given the fact that – unlike everybody else – I have never been brought to Storybrooke by a curse, I was thinking that maybe...” he sways his head, drawing out the moment before asking his question, because a part of him is afraid of the answer. “Maybe I'd be able to _leave_ Storybrooke without being affected by any of the dreaded consequences that crossing the town line normally brings.”

Regina puts her hands to her hips. “Ah, now I get it!” she exclaims, surprise in her voice, and also a little disdain, because somehow she'd never expected it from him. “Abandoning ship, are we?”

He tilts his head and plucks an invisible lint from the sharp tip of his hook, intensely studying the shiny metal. “Only temporarily, I hope,” he retorts casually.

She frowns briefly, but then it slowly dawns on her, and she draws a sharp breath when she understands... and of course, she should have known sooner: the pirate wasn't one to give up easily, has never been. “ _You_... are planning to go after them!” she blurts out.

Slowly, he focuses his eyes on hers again. “Is it possible for me?” he asks instead of an answer.

“Indeed,” she replies pensively, her lips curling into an impressed smile. “Seems I never gave you enough credit for your tactical mind.”

New life, _new hope_ crawls into her bones, and her limbs seem to lose the numbness that slowly paralyzed them after seeing Henry drive out of her life again earlier. She knew he wasn't lost to her forever, not like the last time, but she also had a feeling that Emma – damn her indecisiveness – wouldn't return so soon, not even for a visit. Yesterday, the pirate didn't manage to convince her to stay, in spite of her obvious feelings for him... but maybe he can accomplish something if he follows her.

“So, all I have to do is leave town, and some time later, I can find my way back and enter again?” he makes sure.

“You won't even need any magic,” Regina confirms, and he gives a final nod and turns to the door to leave. “Wait!” she calls after him, and he whirls around again, door knob already in hand. “When are you planning to leave?” she demands to know. “You'll need instructions. I wouldn't advise you to take a pirate ship to the modern world.”

Briefly, his eyes flicker away, and he scratches behind his ear. “I won't,” he replies almost curtly. “And I shall be on my way as soon as possible, probably tomorrow, after getting properly equipped for the Land Without Magic.”

She raises her chin. “I'll be happy to provide you with anything you'll need. Instructions for the road.”

Killian nods. “I'll have you know.”

His mood has improved a notch when he walks away from the Mayor's mansion; even though he already had imagined that he could indeed leave town and come back again unharmed and with all his memories untouched, a hint of doubt had remained until Regina confirmed his thoughts. The tiny bit of insecurity flew out of the window, and now he can actually start to make plans.

Right after leaving Regina, his steps direct him towards Emma's parents' loft. He isn't 100% sure what they will think of his plan and if they'd maybe prefer him not going. Even though they both seem to have warmed up to him a little lately, the fact remains that he's a pirate and former villain, and surely not what they want for their daughter. They might even find his whole mission quite presumptuous.

But anyway, they deserve to know it, that there's still hope they'll see their daughter again before she can disappear into the confusing void that is the Land Without Magic.

He doesn't have to wait long after he knocks before Emma's mother opens the door. Her eyes widen in surprise, but it's not a displeased surprise, and her mouth curves into a wide smile.

“You!” Mary Margaret exclaims and steps immediately back, pulling the apartment door open wide, welcoming him in. “Please, come in. I'm so glad you came!”

He raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised himself. “You are?”

“Of course!” When he doesn't move at once, she ushers him in with impatient waves of her hands and closes the door behind him. “You disappeared so early from the naming ceremony yesterday, that I didn't even have the opportunity to talk to you...”

Killian steps nearer, feeling a little overwhelmed by this unexpected enthusiastic welcome, and looks around the loft. “Speaking of which,” he picks up the thread, “how's the little prince faring?”

Mary Margaret sighs. “Finally asleep,” she informs him and leans into his personal space in a conspiratorial way. “Whoever said that infants sleep all the time was lying.” She motions toward the kitchen table for him to sit down, and he obliges. Without asking, she fills a mug from a steaming pot, and when she puts it in front of him, he sees and smells it's tea, dark, strong and aromatic.

“Thank you,” he murmurs and acknowledges her hospitality with a nodded bow.

“So... what brings you here?” she asks when she sits down opposite him, her fingers curling around her own mug.

Before he can reply, heavy footsteps are heard as Emma's father descends the stairs from the upper floor.

“Hey,” he greets him, a little surprised, but definitely welcoming. “Everything okay?” He kisses his wife on the top of her head and fetches himself a mug, filling it with tea. Leaning against the kitchen counter behind Mary Margaret and resting a hand on her shoulder, he scrutinizes him closely, a sympathetic expression on his face.

“Actually...” Killian rubs the spot behind his ear. “I came here to ask a favor.”

Emma's parents exchange a glance before David looks at him again expectantly. “What can we do for you?”

“I'm planning to leave Storybrooke,” Killian says firmly, and the princess bandit lets out a little gasp whereas the prince's brow furrows dangerously. Quickly, he continues, “And I need your help to get me equipped for the world outside.”

“Planning to leave,” David snaps acidly, _“again?”_

“David,” Mary Margaret reprimands quietly and turns to Killian again. “Hook, I just want to say – don't think just because Emma...” –she pauses for a moment, and a shadow flies across her face, before she braces herself and continues, “Don't think because Emma left, you're not welcome anymore. If it wasn't for you, we would have lost our second child, too.”

Her voice quivers the tiniest bit, and it warms his heart that even though she must be in pain because of losing her daughter for the _third_ time, she still makes the effort to reassure him of something he's never really felt – his place in this community. Yet, her praise makes him uncomfortable, as he feels it's undeserved.

But even Emma's father nods in agreement. “She's right,” he admits, mollified.

On its own accord, Killian's hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear again. “That's hardly true,” he contradicts, embarrassment tinting the tips of his ears, “I couldn't accomplish much to help with the defeat of the witch–”

“Yet, you risked your life,” David interrupts, “ _again_.”

“And don't forget,” the princess bandit adds, “we managed to break the curse and get our memories back only because _you_ brought Emma and Henry to Storybrooke. Without that, we'd never have suspected Zelena, and she'd have taken away the baby. So yes, I'm sticking to my statement that thanks to you I still have my son with me, and you have earned your place here.”

Arguing with Emma's headstrong mother seems pointless, and so he just tilts his head in defeat. “Well, thank you, Milady, I very much appreciate the sentiment.” Firmly, he looks up at her again and adds with determination in his voice, “But I'm still leaving.”

“But why?” she inquires, while her husband shakes his head with a melancholy smile. “I've never been outside Storybrooke,” she continues, “but I gather the Land Without Magic can be very difficult to live in for someone like us.” She reaches across the table and puts her hand on Killian's, surprising him with that somewhat motherly gesture. “I'm not saying you couldn't deal with it, but why would you want to? You'd be surrounded by... strangers, at best.” She seems genuinely concerned for him, and that really touches him. “If you don't mind me asking, what are you hoping to find?”

“As you well know, I'm a pirate.” He looks her in the eyes, the jade-like green reminding him very much of Emma's suddenly, and tilts his head in a conspiratorial way. “I've been known to find treasure in the unlikeliest places.”

The prince frowns, and she narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Where did you say you were going?”

Killian cocks his eyebrow. “The only place outside Storybrooke I've ever been to in this world. The city of New York.”

“You... _what?_ ” David gasps.

But his wife just smiles in triumphant disbelief. “You sneaky–”

“Why didn't you just _say_ that?” Emma's father interrupts, his voice a little exasperated.

Killian crinkles his nose. “I wasn't so sure if you approved, in all honesty.”

The princess bandit shakes her head. “Nonsense!” she contradicts firmly and turns to her husband. “Why didn't _we_ think of it, David? This is perfect!” Emma's mother is positively excited. “You managed to bring her back once, you can do it again!” And there it is, Snow White's trademark, utter optimism as she nods vigorously. “ _Of course_ we approve!”

David nods more slowly, but with a quiet, warm smile. “We'd be crazy not to.” He squeezes his wife's shoulder and puts down his mug. “Well, then I'd say, let's equip you for the world out there... even though the world should probably prepare for you.” He points his finger at Killian. “First of all, you need a phone.”

Killian gives a fatalistic nod. “I was afraid you'd say that.”

***

David is slightly exasperated as he sits there on an uncomfortable chair, watching the pirate parade back and forth in front of a huge mirror, sporting a pair of black (what else?), skin-tight denims that look like they're painted on. Really, sometimes he asks himself how he can even stand the man... but the surprising thing is – he found he _can_. Somewhere between saving his life in Neverland (in spite of _I didn't do it for you, mate_ ) and being tossed around in the dirt in Zelena's barn by the witch and the Dark One while trying to save his baby son, he's started to somehow... _grow_ on David, in a weird way.

“I suppose these will do,” Killian comments and throws a glance over his shoulder. “What do you think?”

David shrugs. “Honestly, these jeans look as uncomfortable as your leather pants.”

“Uncomfortable?” the pirate whirls around, sounding almost insulted. “My breeches are as soft as butter, mate.” He points at himself in the mirror. “Now, these... _jeans_? They'll soften with time.”

The prince rolls his eyes. “Or you could just pick a larger size?” he suggests, his voice tinged with a hint of sarcasm.

Killian tilts his head and admires for a second the flattering way these modern pants cling to his arse, bringing out the strong curve of the muscles. “I like a snug fit.”

“I'm well aware,” David mumbles grumpily.

“Keeps the valuables where they belong,” Killian comments matter-of-factly and then picks up one of the small cotton garments Emma's father has brought him. “Are these underthings really necessary?”

David runs his hand through his hair, trying to hide his annoyance. There are some things he just doesn't _want_ to know. Hook's obvious habit of going commando is one of them. “You just said your old leathers are... butter soft, right?” he asks.

“Right.”

“Well, denims aren't,” he tells him almost triumphantly. “Especially not when they're as tight as _you_ picked them. And trust me, you do not want your...” –he waves his hand vaguely in Killian's direction and crinkles his nose– “ _valuables_ to get intimately acquainted with your zipper while you're... _bare_.”

Killian points his ringed index finger at Emma's father. “Fair point, mate. Underthings it is then, I guess.”

A little later, they load David's truck with a few bags and boxes, and Killian is already wearing one of his brand new attires that are completely up to date and fashionable, yet look on him like he's never worn anything else. But then, of course, it's almost entirely black, complete with a leather jacket that makes him look like – yes – a modern pirate, and a waistcoat. Even the fabric of the jeans has some smooth shine to it, so that it almost gives the impression of leather.

While they drive back to Granny's to unload the purchases, Killian takes out the new device David made him buy and stares at the small screen, a frown creasing his forehead.

“Are you sure I can contact you with this when I'm no longer in Storybrooke?” he asks doubtfully, swiping his thumb across the screen tentatively.

David chuckles. “Yes, I'm sure, Hook. That's kind of the point.” He motions to the device in Killian's hand. “That way you can keep in touch and keep us... adjourned.”

“Hmm,” the pirate mumbles, “we'll see if it's as clever a telephone as it claims to be.”

“Smart,” David corrects, “it's called a smart phone. Don't worry, Henry will gladly help you use it, if you have problems.”

Killian nods, and David clears his throat, obviously having something on his mind. “Hook, listen,” he begins, and Killian faces him warily, bracing himself for a princely warning about how to not approach his precious daughter. “I don't know what's going on between the two of you,” he continues, and Killian sighs quietly – _there it is_ – but then Emma's father surprises him. “Maybe Emma ultimately decides she wants to stay in New York,” he says, “with _you_.” Killian waits for a judgment, a warning or something like that, but it never comes. Instead, David nods, his jaw set in a grim determination. “I just want to make it clear that her mother and I just want her to be happy, and if that means she needs to keep her distance–”

“Emma's happiness is also _my_ foremost priority,” Killian interrupts, completely taken by surprise by the prince's display of selfless love and trust, obvious trust that he – _nothing but a pirate_ – will have Emma's best in mind; he deserves to be reassured. “Look, mate. I... I love her,” he blurts out. David scrutinizes him in earnest, stunned but somehow not really surprised, and Killian suddenly feels embarrassed. He surely didn't plan to reveal his feelings so openly to Emma's father; it's not like he's ashamed of them, but this is not the moment, and it's not about him. A little hastily, he goes on, “But whatever shall or shall not come out of that, I truly believe that she cannot be happy without accepting who she is and where her home is.”

David nods slowly, appreciatively. “Do you think you can bring her back?” he asks.

Killian raises his eyebrows pensively. “I think she will realize sooner or later that her home is here, with her family. But she might... deny it out of sheer...” he hesitates, not wanting to offend Emma's father, but apparently he's well aware of his daughter's flaws.

“Stubbornness,” he jumps in and nods gravely.

Killian tilts his head. “Maybe I can help her accept it.”

David slaps his shoulder. “I'd never have thought I'd say that, but... I have faith in you.”

***

Emma can barely keep her fingers from trembling, when she unlocks the door to the apartment she left only like two weeks ago – two weeks in which her life was turned upside down, and back again. No, she's doing the right thing; this is the life she wants for herself and Henry. Entering the place she's been living in for a year should feel like home, if everything she's been telling herself throughout the last few days is true – it _should_.

It doesn't.

She ignores that alarming fact and turns to Henry with a bright smile. “Come on, kid, let's just leave our bags here, and then go get some groceries.” She nudges his shoulder. “Hey, you know what? I'm in the mood for ice cream. We could get some rocky road of your fave brand, what do you say?”

The look Henry gives her can only be described as defiant boredom. “My other mom promised me that, too,” he replies pointedly, “when she threatened everyone, so I went home with her. She tried to bribe me, saying I could have everything I wanted, now that she had back her magic.”

“Henry...”

“I'm tired,” he interrupts. “Can I stay here, so I can put away my stuff and settle back in?”

“Okay, of course,” Emma replies eagerly and drops her travel bag in the living room while Henry shuffles to his room without another word. “Hey,” she calls after him and when he turns around again, she's relieved that he doesn't look openly hostile (as he did at times during their car ride). She smiles at him tentatively. “Will you at least try?” she asks, her voice almost pleading.

He shrugs almost indifferently. “Sure.” Then he looks at her pointedly and raises his eyebrows, an awfully familiar gesture. “Like _you_ tried.”

Then he turns around and shuffles to his room, leaving her with her mouth hanging open. _Welcome home._

***

The following days aren't easy; in fact, they're pretty difficult. The bailbonds agency she used to get most of her assignments from is rather understanding and tells her to take a few days' time to settle back in; they're just too happy to have their most successful hunter back to complain. So, she doesn't work for a few days and tries everything to recreate the happy routine she and Henry used to have before she remembered her old, her _real_ life... was that only a few weeks ago? She acts like they have only been away for holidays, acts like their whole lives haven't been turned upside down, as if everything about their happy routine hasn't been a charade. She tells herself over and over again that, even though their memories were fake, their lives weren't. She tells herself that, eventually, Henry will get there, too.

At the moment, of course, he refuses to. He drops the open hostility, he goes back to school, even contacts and meets up with a few of his friends, but he openly lacks the enthusiasm, the zest for life and optimism that always has been such a prominent feature in him during their year together.

But Emma knows, he's just being stubborn, reminding her very much of her own mother in this trait. Well, _she_ can be stubborn, too.

The fourth day, she decides it's time to pay a visit to the agency and see if they have an assignment for her; maybe an easy one, for starters. But she's got to pay for their rent and food, right? So she needs to go back to work soon.

After Henry has left for school, she puts their breakfast plates in the dishwasher and makes a round through the apartment to check that all windows are closed (this is New York, after all) before she picks up her purse and looks for her phone.

A sharp knock at the door startles her while she's crawling beneath the coffee table where her phone apparently dropped from the couch. She remembers that she's placed an online order for groceries and calls, “Just a moment! If you can't wait, put it on the floor, I'll pick it right up.”

When she's retrieved the damn phone, she heads for the door, cursing as she stubs her toe, and opens the apartment door, eyes directed downward, already halfway diving down to pick up the box with the grocery delivery. But surprisingly, there is no box.

The first thing she sees as her eyes sweep upwards is black: black boots, black skinny jeans on lean legs, a black leather jacket. It's almost like... but no, she's being ridiculous. These are normal clothes, and there are _two_ hands, and... when her eyes reach the man's face, she almost gasps, because for a moment there her stupid mind has almost fooled her, but that moment just lasts for the fraction of a second. It lasts until she realizes that her eyes, her mind _haven't_ been fooling her _at all._ This might be rather a rock star attire than a pirate one, but the blue eyes with the crinkled skin around them and unmistakable smile confirm that the man before her is most definitely a pirate, a familiar one.

_Well, shit._

  
  


 


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2** _

  
_I really need someone to talk to, and nobody else  
_ _Knows how to comfort me tonight_

Seconds tick by, but to Emma they seem like an eternity as she keeps staring at the figure in black, trying to process what's going on, but miserably failing. She can feel that her mouth is hanging open, but she can't seem to make it work, to form a coherent sentence, or even just words.

“ _Hook?!_ ” she finally gasps, and she _knows_ what's going to happen, because they've been in this exact situation only a few weeks ago, when he shattered her whole world and everything she thought she believed in. He's gonna be all smirky and cocky and _Did you miss me?_ and she can't even answer that question, or maybe she doesn't want to. _Dare to._

Instead of a smirk, though, a faint shadow flies over his face, and she asks herself why that is, because at least, this time, she's recognized him at once. He quickly covers it with a smile. “Like a déjà-vû, isn't it, Swan?”

Like so often, Killian Jones seems to read her thoughts, and it's unnerving, because obviously, some things never change. Instinctively, she takes a step back, putting some physical distance between herself and the unexpected visitor, and blurts out the first thing that comes to her mind.

“Why are you dressed like that?” she asks almost harshly, motioning to his definitely modern day outfit that somehow doesn't make him look very different from before. He's kept the eyeliner and the earring, and he's even wearing a waistcoat. Also, apparently his nonchalant attitude on buttons extends to modern shirts, because yeah, some things never change. She pries her eyes away from his chest hair she really has no business looking at and quickly adds, “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” comes the prompt reply, “looking for a fresh start.” Hook tilts his head, and she's appalled to realize she's anticipated the familiar gesture of his. He gestures with his hand along his body, “Hence the new attire.”

“A fresh start?” Emma frowns and shakes her head once. “I don't understand. Why? And why _here_?”

He shrugs. “My business with the Crocodile is done. I have no further connections to Storybrooke, and I thought it was time for me to open a new chapter.”

Crossing her arms she eyes him with a suspiciously cocked eyebrow. “And you come _here_ of all places?”

He raises his hands in a gesture of innocence – yes, _hands_ , plural, and she notices that his metal attachment has been replaced with a prosthetic, covered by a thin black glove, and one that looks far more realistic than the last one she saw him with. “Here's as good a place as any.”

She snorts. “And you really expect me to believe that has nothing to do with me?”

“Of course it has to do with you,” he tells her nonchalantly.

Emma is taken aback. “So you admit it?”

“Admit what, love?”

With annoyance, she registers that it doesn't bother her at all to hear the familiar address. Actually, she might even have missed it, and _that_ annoys her even more.

“That you're here to talk me into going back to Storybrooke,” she tells him and narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Did my parents send you?” she wants to know.

He might not wear his ridiculously enormous silver belt buckle any longer, but he can still hook his thumb in his belt. “I don't take orders,” he replies smoothly, “I'm here because I _want_ to be, just like you.” Her super power tells her he's not lying, her parents don't have anything to do with him being here, and _now_ she's curious. He adds, just as sincerely, “When I told you that I hoped you'd find what you're looking for, I meant it.”

That softens her a bit. “Then why did you just say it has to do with me, you being here?” she asks.

Hook shrugs again. “I've been to the Land Without Magic only twice, briefly, as you know,” he explains, “I thought seeing a familiar face would make it a little easier to settle in.”

“Hmm,” she grumbles and then frowns when she suddenly thinks of something. “So you sailed a freaking pirate ship here, _again_?”

He shakes his head. “I came here by...” –he furrows his brow as he's obviously trying to remember something, “train, I think, they call it.”

Emma narrows her eyes. “And your ship?”

He waves his hand and replies a little vaguely, “Was left behind. As I said, fresh start.”

She's a bit unsure as to what to think of it; she can't really imagine Hook without his ship – honestly, she can't imagine him _here_ permanently, in this world, and she's wondering if he has a concrete plan. “And what are you going to do now?” she wants to know.

“Oh, I'm sure I can find some occupation,” he answers nonchalantly.

“Pillaging and plundering is as illegal here as it was in the Enchanted Forest,” Emma comments dryly, “whether you have a ship or not.”

“I'm well aware of that,” he chuckles and rubs a spot behind his ear. “I've never been averse to hard work, you know.” After pausing for a moment, he clears his throat and then continues, “I would ask you a favor, though, if you're so inclined...” She raises her eyebrows curiously, and he goes on, “As you're surely aware, I haven't seen much of this... modern world, and I know even less of it.” He tilts his head. “I'll need some time to adjust, to settle in... and it would be a great relief if you could,” he nods his head to her, “provide a bit of advice here and there until I get on my feet.” He smiles disarmingly. “What do you say, Swan?”

She taps her index finger against her chin. “Do you have a place to stay, for starters?” she asks, somehow doubting it.

“I came directly here to see you,” he confirms her suspicion and motions to the huge kitbag he's dropped on the floor behind him, “but I'm certain I can find some sort of inn here. Money is not a problem.”

Somehow, she didn't expect that. “Oh?” She raises a questioning eyebrow, and he smirks.

“I might have given up my ship,” he tells her, “but not the dubloons I'd stashed away.”

Of course, she shouldn't have doubted his resourcefulness. “Good then,” she says, “we'll find a decent place for you, I guess. In a few days,” she adds.

Hook frowns. “In a few days?” he echoes.

“Yeah. You can crash here in the meantime,” she tells him nonchalantly.

He narrows his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Stay,” she explains, “sleep.” A surprised, incredulous smile blooms on his face, and she continues hastily, “I meant, you can stay here for starters, until we find you something.” She combs her hair behind her ears with both hands. “If money isn't a problem, you really shouldn't take the first available thing.”

“Oh.” He scratches behind his ear. “That's a very generous offer, Swan, and I'm really honored. But I wouldn't want to impose...”

She rolls her eyes and steps aside, briskly motioning for him to come in. “Come in already, before I change my mind,” she orders grumpily. “But don't get in my way.”

He tilts his head. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

In a swift move, he bends down to pick up his kitbag and then enters the apartment with long, smooth steps. When she watches him saunter in, she's very vividly reminded of that morning (not so long ago) he came here to pick up her and Henry for their journey back to Storybrooke. She felt a mix of annoyance and absurd, nervous excitement then – she hadn't missed him, because she hadn't remembered him, but part of her was secretly glad to have him back. She's having very similar feelings _now_ – except for the missing part. She hasn't forgotten him, and so, part of her _did_ miss him, like she misses all her friends, and of course her family. She's an adult, she can admit that. Especially because it doesn't change a thing about her decision and the fact that this life she chose is the best for Henry, and for herself.

But yes, it is somehow... _nice_ to see him again. On the other hand, _somehow_ it also smells of trouble, because when has this man ever _not_ meant trouble of some sort? So yeah, hence the annoyance.

She closes the door and risks another glance, and damn, she has to admit that he wears these modern day clothes _really_ well. As impressive as his long leather duster was – the short leather jacket does have its perks, the exposure of his taut backside and the way he moves his long legs in those tight black denims being one of them. Emma frowns and shakes her head as she asks herself if it _really_ was a good idea to act on her spontaneous impulse and invite him to stay with them... as if she needs any more complications distracting her from settling into their new life – and forgetting what she so desperately wants to leave behind.

With a sigh, she follows him into the living room where he waits for her further instructions.

“Make yourself at home,” she says and licks her lips nervously, motioning to the couch. “I don't have a spare room, so you'll have to sleep on here. It should be comfortable enough. Food's in the fridge, bathroom's down the hall, you'll find towels in the bathroom cupboard.”

He sets his kitbag down on the floor and nods with a smile. “Thank you, Swan. I didn't really expect–”

“It's fine,” she interrupts, “the least thing I can do, after what you did for my family. Uh...” –she grabs her phone and her keys, “I gotta go to work now, we'll talk later?”

“Sure,” he replies and raises his hands – it still feels weird to see him without his hook – “don't let me keep you. I'll be fine.”

She nods curtly. “Good.”

Emma is kind of relieved to get out of the apartment and to the bail bonds agency, as she feels kind of overwhelmed by the recent events. Her super power definitely told her that Hook was being sincere about his intentions – he isn't here to persuade her to come back to Storybrooke, and her parents haven't sent him here; it looks like he really has her best in mind and wishes for her to find what she's looking for. Still, somehow she has the feeling there's more behind it, and that's very confusing.

Also, his presence makes her feel... on the edge somehow. Yes, she's attracted to him, has always been, if she's honest, and yes, she _does_ care about him. _Somehow_. She's a reasonable adult, she can admit that. And the fact that she admits it to herself now, is proof that she _is_ reasonable, right? Which means that her other decisions are reasonable, too.

Actually, it might not be a bad thing that he's here.

For a few hours, she's catching up with what's been going on at the agency, and she takes a few files with her, to do some research at home, before she goes on an actual stakeout.

In the late afternoon, when she picks Henry up from the bus right around the corner, he's in a foul mood to see her. “What, am I under surveillance now?” he asks grumpily. “Afraid I'll jump on the the next Greyhound home?”

“You'd better not, kid,” she replies lightly, as if he was making a joke, ignoring the edge behind his words. “Listen,” she continues, “before we go inside, you should know... we have a visitor.”

“A visitor?” he frowns. “But we don't know anyone here?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Don't be so dramatic. We know a lot of people here.” Henry presses his mouth into a thin line and looks away, feigning disinterest. She sighs and explains, “Not from here.”

That surely gets her his attention. His eyes widen. “From back home?” he asks in a excited voice and wastes no time, running into the building and up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. “But how's that possible?” he wants to know, not even looking back over his shoulder to see if she's following him (she is). “Who is it?” He all but hops up and down while she's fumbling for her keys.

“Calm down,” she tells him, “it's not anyone from–”

The moment the key turns in the lock, Henry pushes her aside and bursts inside, hurrying right into the living room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Hook sitting there on the sofa, flipping through a magazine.

“ _You?!”_ he blurts out instead of a greeting, completely taken aback. “What are you doing here? And why–”

Hook closes the magazine and carefully places it back on the coffee table, then he rises from his sitting position. “Why am I dressed like that?” he interrupts Henry with a smile, and the boy drops his book bag on the floor.

“Uh, yeah?”

Hook throws a glance at Emma and, when she shrugs, leaving it up to him to explain his presence to her son, he says, “Well, I thought it a more suitable attire for my endeavor to”, he waves his hand a little vaguely, “turn over a new leaf and start a new life. In this world.”

Henry frowns. “Here? Why would you do that?” he inquires. “You know nothing about this world.”

He tilts his head. “During my long life I've had to adapt to changes on many an occasion, lad,” he replies, “and it seemed time for a new adventure.” Motioning towards Emma, he adds, “Your mother was kind enough to offer me a bit of assistance.”

“He's staying with us for a few days,” she explains, “until he's settled in. That okay with you?”

Henry shrugs. “Sure, it's fine,” he waves her off impatiently and turns to Hook again. “How is everyone at home?”

Again, he glances at Emma before answering. “Faring well,” he says, “trying to get used to... a normal life without dangers.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Emma murmurs dryly.

Henry shoots her a glare and addresses Hook again, “So the Wicked Witch is safely locked up?”

“Oh, yes, don't worry,” Hook soothes, “she's absolutely powerless.”

“I doubt Gold's given up his revenge plans,” Emma interjects.

“You could be right,” he agrees, then smiles brightly. “Thankfully, that's not your problem any longer.”

“Hm,” Henry grumbles and picks up his book bag again. “I have homework to do.” And with that, he disappears into his room.

Emma turns to Hook again. “Is really everything safe back... in Storybrooke?” she asks with only the tiniest hesitation in her voice. Yes, she almost said _back home_ , out of habit. That means nothing.

“It was last night, when I left,” he replies, “there's no need to worry, Swan.”

“Good,” she nods and then throws him a questioning look. “Have you eaten?”

“I had breakfast on the train this morning.”

She shrugs. “Then I suppose we'll have dinner early. Are you okay with pizza?”

“Of course, love,” he agrees quickly, “anything your heart desires is fine with me. But I wouldn't want to mess up your schedule.”

“Don't worry,” she waves him off, “I haven't eaten since breakfast either. I'm going to take a shower.”

With that, she turns around and leaves him there, suddenly overwhelmed by her own swirling thoughts. The brief conversation with Henry brought it all back and showed her in an unwelcome way that she was _far_ from being over everything she left behind. Hook's arrival in the morning already threw her off track, bringing back with might all the things she pushed to the back of her mind, swept them aside. But then it's normal, she soothes herself as she grabs a pair of comfortable sweatpants, a sweater and fluffy socks and heads to the bathroom. It's like she told Hook the day before she left: her parents, her brother, her friends, the little town that has been the center of her life for quite a few months – of course she cares. They're her _parents_ , for fuck's sake, even if they barely ever had the chance to actually _be_ her parents. She loves them, and she wishes they could have the opportunity to grow closer; it's not like she doesn't _want_ to be close to them.

But her first and foremost priority is and _has_ to be her son, _his_ safety. She has given him up for adoption to give him his best chance all those years ago, just like her parents gave _her_ up even longer ago – and now she has to make sure again that he has his best chance at a happy, safe and _normal_ life. And while he may be _happy_ in Storybrooke, she'll admit that, his life surely wouldn't be _safe_ , let alone _normal_. And he was happy _here_ , too, once – he can be happy again; _they_ can be happy again. She firmly believes that.

She _has_ to.

Oddly enough, the atmosphere at dinner isn't tense at all; even Henry seems to have lightened up a little. While he was rather tight-lipped over the last few days, when it was just them, he finally seems to thaw a bit while talking to Hook, asking him questions about his journey from Storybrooke to New York, and he even laughs at Hook's anecdotes about his little struggles with the modern world during his train ride, like that _“blasted contraption that poured boiling water all over my hand instead of in my cup, fortunately it was the fake one.”_

Emma is a little disgruntled that Henry mostly ignores her while he's all chatty with Hook, but on the other hand it's great to see him smile after almost a week of sporting a woeful expression all the time. Even if it does frustrate her that she can't seem to get through to him, she also does understand that _his_ struggle with their new life is harder than hers, because _she_ has always been a nomad in her life, and he hasn't, and besides, due to his age he sees only what he wants to see, and that's the loss of his family and friends. She's aware that he needs time, and in a way it's good that Hook is here now, if it helps Henry to come out of his shell for a bit.

Henry sees himself to bed unusually soon, and after she has loaded the dishwasher, she sets up some tea.

“So, what are your plans?” she asks Hook over her steaming mug. “Do you even have a plan? For what you want to do with your life?”

He tilts his head. “First of all, I'm going to find some occupation to get into a daily routine, so-to-speak. Just... blend in, I suppose?”

She chuckles. “New York City is full of people who are a little... weird. You won't have problems blending in.”

“Oh, so I'm weird?” he picks up her playful tone.

“Well, you call everything that has to do with modern technology a _magic box_ or a _bloody contraption_ , so yeah, maybe a little?” she teases.

He laughs, and she realizes it's the first time she's heard him do it, a deep and rich sound that makes her smile. “I suppose you have a point there,” he admits, “although I'm probably not weirder than you making that face when you realized that magic beans are actually a thing.”

“Probably not.” Her smile freezes when he mentions actual magic, and she puts down her mug.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asks, worry on his face.

She shakes her head. “It's okay.” Leaning a little forward, she scrutinizes him closely. “Are you sure you're just here for a fresh start?” she then inquires. “My parents really didn't send you to convince me to come back?”

He sets down his half-empty mug as well. “As I said, Swan, nobody sent me,” he assures, “and I'm not planning to convince you to do anything.”

After a probing look, she nods firmly. “Good, because I won't. We're staying here.” His face bears an unreadable expression, and, feeling she has to make a point and convince him of her resolution, she adds, “This is our home now.”

“Of course,” he agrees in a serious voice. “You must have missed it so much these few last weeks when you were away.”

Emma narrows her eyes, but his expression is innocent, bare of any sarcasm. Yet, she can feel the needling, _God_ , he's so good at that. She glares at him and gets up. “I missed the peace and calm, yes,” she stresses and adds, “And I did _not_ have a déjà-vû this morning.” He raises his eyebrows in question, and she points out, “Last time you found me here, I didn't know who I was, and I was here because I'd been forced to. This time I know damn well who I am, and I'm here anyway.” Even if he tries to keep a steady face, she can see the faint shadow ghosting over it, and she finishes with determination, “I came _deliberately_ , because I wanted to.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks, and she knows that means he's not as calm as he seems. “Point taken,” he replies in a completely nonchalant tone and raises slowly from his chair, but his smile is a little strained.

“Good,” she says curtly and pours the rest of her tea into the sink. “I'll go to sleep.”

Killian's gaze follows her calmly, before he plops down on the couch with a sigh and runs his hand through his hair. For a moment there, Emma allowed a connection between them, but then he had to go and ruin it. Of course, he immediately realized his mistake of mentioning magic beans – that made her shut down right away. And his dig about her surely having missed her _“home”_ (which he's sure she hasn't) – no, she isn't there yet; he should have known. He'll make sure to be more careful with those things; he knows, if this is going to work, he must not pressure Emma in any way; that will most surely result in her shutting down and hide herself behind her walls even more, fortifying them, just to prove she's right.

Her reactions during his talk with the lad, her immediate concern... no, she isn't done with Storybrooke – something he secretly feared when he arrived, that she maybe had talked herself into really not missing anyone or anything she left behind; she would be stubborn enough. But apparently, she hasn't managed to brainwash herself into believing that, and that's a relief.

Suddenly, he feels his limbs grow heavy, and the tiredness of a long overnight train journey settles deep in his bones. He rises from the couch with a groan and shuffles over into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he stretches out on the couch, he falls asleep almost the same moment his head touches the pillow Emma provided him with.

The next morning, he wakes up with the sunrise, as usual, and by the time Emma and shortly after her Henry shuffle out of their rooms, both with with unruly hair and sleepy faces, he has gotten acquainted himself with the kitchen enough to have coffee, tea and hot cocoa ready for them, along with toast and some fruit he found in the fridge and chopped it.

“Breakfast?” the lad asks in an appreciative voice.

“I didn't know if you prefer eggs or pancakes,” Killian replies in an apologetic voice, and Emma huffs.

“You cook?” She sounds almost offended, definitely grumpy, to say the least, as she shuffles nearer, obviously magnetically drawn by the smell of coffee.

He tilts his head. “Opening coconuts was only the tip of the iceberg,” he comments.

“Hm,” she grumbles, and he remembers that Emma Swan is _not_ a morning person. She grabs a mug from the board above the kitchen sink and fills it with coffee from the pot.

“I'd love pancakes,” Henry singsongs and disappears into the bathroom, and Killian chuckles.

“Slept okay?” Emma asks as she leans against the counter and takes a few sips of her coffee, closing her eyes for a moment, apparently savoring it.

“Aye,” he answers, “your couch is very comfortable, really. I can't thank you enough for having me, Swan.”

“Hm,” she mumbles again and waves him off (which seems to be a synonym for _'don't worry'_ this time) before putting down her mug. “I wouldn't say no to pancakes either.”

Half an hour later, they are sitting at the table with their breakfast, and Emma fills a to-go mug with coffee before she leaves for work.

“Hey kid, want me to give you a lift to school?” she asks, but Henry shakes his head.

“Class starts an hour later today,” he replies and loads another pancake on his plate.

“Okay. Oh, Hook, by the way...” He raises his eyebrows in question, and she pulls something from her pocket and puts it on the table beside his plate. “Here, you'll need this.”

Killian picks the small key up between thumb and forefinger. “What's that for, Swan?”

“A spare key to this apartment,” she explains, “So you can go out and come back as you like. Just lock the door when you leave.”

He nods. “Thank you. I will,” he promises almost solemnly.

“Good.” She slips on a dufflecoat. “And if you need help with anything...”

“I have a clever telephone,” he replies with a slightly smug head tilt, “and I know how to operate it.”

Henry giggles, and Killian isn't entirely sure about the reason. Emma's eyes widen in surprise. “ _You_ have a smart phone? I'm impressed,” she comments, “Look at you becoming a 21st Century man.”

He reaches in his pocket and puts his phone on the counter. “I told you I'm trying to adapt as well as possible to this modern world.”

“Well, then, I'll give you my number,” Emma says and takes his phone, lets her fingers fly graciously over the small screen and hands it back to him. “Now I have your number, too. If you need help–”

“I'll just press the Emma button,” he interrupts with a smile.

Much to his delight, she blushes slightly. “Yeah, well, I filed it under _Swan_.” She grabs an enormous red scarf and starts wrapping it around her neck. “Oh, one more thing,” she remembers, “do you have real money? I mean, you can't walk around New York City and pay with gold dubloons.”

It touches him that she seems to genuinely worry about him having everything he needs to make his way into this world unknown to him. “Don't worry, Swan,” he tells her, “it's all taken care of.”

“Good. Then just...” –she waves her hands vaguely in his direction, “just don't get in trouble.”

“Trouble? I?” He puts his hand against his chest in an exaggeratedly theatrical gesture. “You wound me.”

“The last time you were here I had to bail you out,” Emma reminds him dryly.

He points his ringed index finger at her. “Aye, but you had me thrown in before, so that hardly counts.”

Waving impatiently, she rolls her eyes. “Whatever, I gotta go. See you later.”

“And they were roommates,” Henry murmurs in a slightly amused voice after Emma has closed the door behind her.

Killian frowns and turns to him. “Excuse me, lad?”

The boy just shakes his head. “Never mind.” Then he sets down his coca mug and leans forward expectantly, with an eager expression on his young face, as he asks, “So, what's the plan?”

“Plan?” Killian echoes in a confused voice. “What plan?”

Henry crosses his arms and grins. “What are we gonna do to get her to go back home?”

“Oh.” Killian rubs his hand across his jaw. _I forgot how smart the lad is._ “Nothing,” he then replies calmly.

“ _What?”_ the boy exclaims incredulously.

“We're not doing anything, lad,” Killian confirms.

“But isn't that what you came here for?” Emma's son protests. “We have to try and persuade her...”

“I'm afraid that's not how it works, Henry.” Killian's tone is apologetic; and it does hurt his heart to disappoint the boy that has been through so much in such a short span of his life. The hope in his eyes makes it even harder not to rush things, but Killian is convinced about his approach – pressuring Emma Swan never helps achieve the goal.

“But–”

“Oh, I'm sure we _could_ persuade her to go back,” he interrupts Henry's attempted argument. “But she would do it _for you_.” He points his ringed index finger at the boy. “And if it's supposed to work out for good...” He lets his voice trail off, hoping Henry understands.

The boy nods slowly. “She needs to do it for herself,” he finishes, sounding a bit deflated now.

“Aye, lad.” Killian tilts his head, relieved that the lad indeed understands. “ _She_ has to want it. _She_ has to realize that Storybrooke is also _her_ home.”

A worry is furrowing Henry's brow. “And what if she doesn't realize it?”

“She will.” Killian leans forward, too, now, searching the boy's gaze. “You'll see. It won't be long before she'll start to miss her parents, her friends... and then she'll know.”

“And that's all?” Henry asks doubtfully.

“No, of course not,” Killian concedes. “It will take her a bit more to admit it, and perhaps _another_ bit to _accept_ it. Just like when you found her and brought her to Storybrooke for the first time.”

The boy sighs and sways his head. “Well, I hope it doesn't take her _that_ long again.”

“Believe in her, Henry,” Killian encourages firmly. “She has already come very far since then.”

“Thanks.” The boy beams happily. “I'm glad you came for us.” Then he gets up from the breakfast table and grabs his book bag. “Gotta hurry, I'll be late for school.”

Killian frowns. “But you said...?”

Pure mischief twinkles from Henry's eyes as he grins like the twelve year old boy he is. “I wanted Mom to leave so I could talk to you.”

Killian raises his eyebrows at him. “I'll pretend I haven't heard that,” he replies, attempting a severe tone, but not quite managing. He's glad to have an ally in the boy.

He clears up the table meticulously, and when he's done, he takes his phone and smiles when he sees the last call made _(Swan)_ before he goes to his contacts to call said Swan's father.

“Hook! Finally!” the prince greets him – not unfriendly, but with slight impatience in his voice. He has only briefly texted him the day before to let him know he arrived safely. “How are they?”

“The lad's clearly unhappy and missing home,” Killian says.

“No surprise there,” David replies. “Poor boy has barely had a minute to breathe since the first curse was broken. And Emma?”

“She...” Killian tilts his head, “she isn't there yet.”

David sighs. “No surprise there either,” he comments dryly.

“And she's very adamant that their home is here now,” Killian continues.

Another sigh. “Yeah, she's stubborn.”

Killian smiles to himself at the irritated resignation in the prince's voice. He knows for a fact that Emma hasn't got just her gumption from her mother. “She just needs time,” he tries to reassure. “Her heart isn't here, I can feel it.”

“Did she buy your excuse?” David asks.

“She believes I'm here for a fresh start,” Killian confirms, “which isn't really a lie, so that's probably why. She was kind enough to offer me shelter,” he adds.

“You're staying _with them?_ ” David probes, and Killian closes his eyes, grimacing at himself. Even if there's no real necessity to keep that fact hidden, because of bloody _course_ he isn't going to take advantage of it in any way, he doesn't want to alarm Emma's father.

He clears his throat. “Aye. Mate, I solemnly swear–”

“Don't,” David cuts him off firmly, but not unfriendly. “Just promise me you'll do everything to make sure this ends with Emma finding her home and being happy,” he demands and then adds, “whatever that might mean.”

“You have my word,” Killian vows, deeply touched by David's words and unselfish love for his daughter, basically telling him once again that he'd even accept her staying away from their family and dallying with _him_ , if it meant granting her happiness. What a long way from _You're nothing but a pirate. You're never gonna get her, I'll see to that._

For a moment, there's silence at the other end of the line, before he hears David's voice again, sober and serious. “That's good enough for me then.” Killian clenches his jaw, and before he can find the appropriate words to reply, the prince adds, “Good luck” and hangs up.

It's a good thing that Emma is rather busy at the agency in the following time and even gets to go on a few stakeouts, because that keeps her mind from what else is going on in her life. Henry's still frustratingly skittish, his mood changes almost every hour, or so it seems, and the annoying pattern is that he's mostly monosyllabic (at best) or grumpy (at worst) with her, while he's his normal, chatty self with Hook, even laughs and cracks jokes sometimes. She keeps telling herself that he needs time, but it's nagging at her.

And Hook, he's... well, he's absolutely not what she expected him to be when he showed up at her doorstep. She half and half waited for him to start jibing and needling about their life here in New York City, especially after that dig on the first evening, about how she must have missed her life here (because _you don't have a home until you just miss it_ , right, Swan? Isn't that what you said?). But that dig – that almost caused her to flip – remained the only one. He seemed even reluctant to bring up Storybrooke or anyone from their old life at all, when sometimes Henry tried to lead a conversation in that direction.

So, she allows herself to get used to his presence, even if she knows it's just temporary. But she knows that even when he'll move out soon, he won't be far away, and the prospect of having him near in the long run feels like... growing a root, somehow.

The first week goes by with them developing a surprisingly smooth routine, even sharing a bathroom doesn't present any difficulties – Hook is an early riser, and by the time Emma and Henry get up in the morning, whether it's on school days or on days when they can sleep in, he's already done and ready for the day. And he's very clean and tidy which, on second thought, really shouldn't surprise her – being used to living in the limited space on a ship probably teaches you to be tidy. It's also nice – especially for a morning grouch like her – to find the coffee ready, hot and strong, when you shuffle out of the bedroom with barely the ability to crack on eye open. In short words, he's the perfect roommate, even if it sounds absurd to her own ears that she has developed a comforting domesticity with Captain Hook.

And _that's_ exactly what makes her feel on edge.

Because domesticity _plus_ friendship – that's undeniably there between them – seems to be a dangerous mix that could lead to complications destined to make her life more difficult and not easier. It could forward the equally undeniable attraction that has been simmering between them for a long time, push her to do – to _feel_ – things she better leaves buried deep and well.

Of course she cares. But that's already the limit of what she can allow herself to do. Anything else is just... not in the cards for her. She's seen it with Graham, she's seen it with Neal. Even with Walsh, although he hardly counts. Every time she allowed herself to get gradually closer to someone, she's been taught the same lesson: don't let yourself fall for a guy – they will die. Or betray you. Or betray you and _then_ die. Bottom line: you'll lose them, so just... _don't_.

This is why she's actually relieved to be able to escape the domesticity for a bit when she has to head out for the evening to catch a perp. It's actually one of those she despises the most: the treacherous sleazeball who doesn't pay alimony. Even if these are usually easy catches, she doesn't like these missions.

Hook's eyebrows rise almost up to his hairline when she comes out of her room and looks a bit similar to when she had her date with Walsh that evening, a short black leather dress and dangerous looking high heels.

“What kind of mission is this going to be, Swan?” he asks suspiciously. “You look like you're going on a rendezvous.”

“I am.” She shrugs and adds hastily, “Well, kind of. The guy I'm after thinks it's a date. But it's just a honey trap.”

He frowns. “Pardon, a what?”

“A honey trap,” she repeats and explains, “I set up a date with him and lull him into a false sense of security, maybe have him drink a bit, and then I'll just... arrest him.”

“You'll distract him with your charms,” he states.

“Exactly.”

“Hm,” he grumbles, “is that really a good idea?”

“A honey trap always works, believe me,” Emma assures with a chuckle.

“Swan, you don't know that man. Be careful.” He looks like he wants to say more, but he doesn't. Yet, there's an intensity in his eyes that makes her nervous suddenly, and so she tries to laugh it off.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're jealous,” she comments lightly, and a stupid little voice at the back of her head whispers, _but you know it well enough._

Instead of a sassy reply, he just turns away from her and says, “I'll provide dinner for your boy.”

Suddenly, Emma feels very awkward and wishes she hadn't mentioned jealousy, because she feels somehow guilty and doesn't know why; he seemed genuinely concerned, and she was almost flippant about it. On the other hand, she doesn't want to make a big deal out of it.

“Thank you,” she murmurs to his back, “and don't worry about me.”

Then she leaves.

A little later, Killian watches Henry intently and with concern across the table as he pokes around in his meal. The boy has been quiet during the entire dinner the two of them share; Emma has announced she will probably be home late from her stakeout, and they shouldn't wait up. The stakeout he isn't to keen on thinking about. _Honey trap_ , she called it, and he doesn't like that name _at all_. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, but also dangerous in that black leather dress and those shoes with the murderous heels. He remembers the occasion when he saw her very similarly dressed... at her date with that hell beast, and how it felt like a stab to his heart.

But this is not the moment for reflecting on his own feelings, not if he wants to succeed in his mission to bring Emma home. He focuses on the boy again.

“You look vexed,” Killian finally remarks. “What is it?”

Henry pushes the rest of his potato salad around on his plate and murmurs, without looking up at Killian, “We've been here for two weeks, and you came a week ago.” In a sudden move, he almost slams his fork on the table and raises his head. “And we're still at the same point!” he then blurts out in an exasperated voice.

Killian tilts his head. “I know it's frustrating, lad,” he tries to soothe, “but it takes time...”

The boy snorts. “Yeah, you keep saying that, but... will she _ever_ understand?” He throws his hands in the air and adds, “I mean, something's definitely changing, but not for the better.”

Killian narrows his eyes at that cryptic statement. “What do you mean?” he inquires.

Henry leans forwards, as if he's telling him a secret, and suddenly he looks like the pre-teen he is, with his _I'm-glad-you-asked_ face. “At the beginning, when we got here, she was just pretending,” he explains, “All her _'New York is home'_ , _'this is the best life for us'_ crap was her trying to convince herself.” Killian nods slowly in acknowledgment; the lad has always been very quick-witted and mature for his young age. With a sorrowful face, he continues, “But now... I don't know...” He shrugs and lets his voice trail off.

Killian frowns and guesses, “You're afraid she's starting to actually believe it?”

Henry shrugs again, and this time he looks really worried and childlike and kind of... at a loss. “Maybe,” he agrees, “Maybe she's managed to talk herself into it.” He cocks his head to the side and scrutinizes Killian thoroughly, before he admits, “You know, I'm not so sure anymore if it was a good idea, you coming here.”

Killian raises his eyebrows in surprise. “My lad, have I done anything to–”

Henry shakes his head. “It's not that. I like having you here.” That admission surprises and embarrasses Killian at the same time and finally puts a brief, bashful smile on his face before the boy goes on, “But it also makes it so much easier for her to tell herself this is home.”

Killian swallows and nods once. “You mean, because I'm a link to her old life, somehow,” he assumes.

Henry rolls his eyes in a way that would make his mother _and_ his grandmother proud, and replies vaguely, “Whatever you want to call it.”

Killian isn't sure what to make of that remark. “You know, you might have a point,” he says.

“So?”

Pensively, he thrums his fingers against his glass. “Well, my staying here was only meant to be temporary anyway,” he thinks out loud.

“What?” Henry gasps in alarmed voice. “Are you saying you're giving up?”

“Give up?” Killian echoes and leans forward, boring his eyes into Henry's almost solemnly. “Never, my boy.”

The lad breathes out in relief and wants to know, “Then what do you mean?”

Killian purses his lips thoughtfully. “I think it's about time I found an occupation and made myself scarce.” He tilts his head. “With the option of moving out soon.”

“Hmmm,” Henry murmurs, “you know, this could actually help.”

Three hours later, the table is cleared, the boy's asleep, and Killian has settled down on the couch with one of the many books from Emma's shelf. He hasn't laid down with his blanket and pillow yet, because he knows he won't be able to sleep anyway before knowing she's safely home.

Then finally, shortly before midnight, he hears the sound of her keys being turned in the lock before she stalks along the corridor.

Rummaging in her purse she murmurs, without looking at him, “I told you not to wait up.”

“And I decide for myself when I wake or sleep,” he replies dryly and puts his book down. “Were you successful?”

“Yeah, I caught the perp,” she replies and continues rummaging, “even got to have half of the main course.”

Killian narrows his eyes, as her behavior seems a little off. “Everything alright, Swan?” he asks.

“Sure,” she answers quickly and makes a beeline for her room, and that's when he knows something's wrong.

“ _Emma.”_ His voice is serious and low, and maybe it's his tone or the fact that he used her first name, but she stops dead in her tracks and turns around with a slightly annoyed huff. He notices immediately the red bruise under her left eye and jumps from his seat. “Bloody hell, what happened to your face?!”

“Relax, it's nothing,” she tries to wave him off, “skin's not even broken.”

“Are you serious?” he growls and is beside her with a few long steps. “Let me take a look.”

She rolls her eyes. “I said it's nothing,” she almost snaps, “and I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he replies calmly and raises his hand to brush her hair away from her face, secretly glad that she allows the tender gesture. He sees the delicate skin is indeed intact, but there's already a slight swelling. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he slowly breathes out through his nose. “But letting someone else help doesn't make you less of a... how do they say it? Bad-arse.”

That makes her smile involuntarily. “Did Henry coach you?” she suspects.

“Don't change the subject,” he admonishes gently and motions to the couch. “Come on, be a good girl and sit down, I'll get you some ice.” He looks at her almost pleadingly, and thankfully she doesn't protest. “This needs to be cooled.”

Surprisingly enough, she caves. “Yeah, that would be really good,” she admits and walks over to the couch while he fetches an ice pack from the freezer. Emma groans and flops down, kicking off her heels and throwing a sideways glance at the blanket he uses to sleep, neatly folded at one end of the couch, the pillow carefully placed on top. Somehow, the sight is calming to her, but she decides not to explore that feeling any further.

Handing her an ice pack before he sits down beside her, he asks, “So, what happened?”

With a hiss, she places the ice pack on her bruise and, after the few moments it takes for the cold to soothe the pain a bit, sinks back against the sofa cushions with a relieved sigh. “The usual,” she replies almost curtly, and he bites back a remark that he has no idea what _the usual_ might be in that case. “I revealed myself eventually, he tried to run,” she continues in a pointedly bored, _there's-nothing-to-see-here_ tone and shrugs. “I got him in the end.”

“And your face?” Killian prompts patiently.

“Collided with his elbow when he was trying to get away from me tackling him,” she finally capitulates and adds a little smugly, “I broke his nose.”

He tilts his head. “Well, I can tell from experience that you do have a mean right hook.”

She throws him a sideways glance and chuckles. “To this day, I don't understand how I was able to land _that_ one,” she muses, and before she can delve deeper into that subject, Killian quickly changes it.

Motioning to her heels, he asks, “And you _ran_ after that miscreant? In these?”

Emma waves him off. “Don't worry, I've done this for a living for years,” she tells him, “I can deal with bad guys. Even in heels, if I have to.”

“Again, I can attest to that,” he comments lightly.

She presses her lips into a small smile, a rare one, not sarcastic and not to hide some hurt. “You're not a bad guy,” she replies with a softness in her voice that makes his heart stutter, and for a moment, their stares lock. Somehow, it feels like they're in some void, with everything else completely blanked out, and the only thing they see are the other one's eyes. But then, in an almost brusque move, Emma looks away, and the undeniable spell is broken.

Killian, too, averts his eyes, even though she isn't looking at him anymore, and offers hastily, “Would you like me to make some tea?”

“No, thanks, you already did enough,” comes the immediate answer, and she puts the ice pack on the coffee table. “I'll just crawl between the sheets, I'm knackered.” She rises from the couch and picks up her shoes. “Wouldn't want to keep you awake any longer,” she throws over her shoulder as she's already heading towards her room.

Killian nods and murmurs, “You just did.”

He waits until he hears the muffled click of the door when Emma closes it behind her, before he slightly shakes his head to clear it and gets up. He isn't sure what just happened, but that small moment, what transpired between them, has filled him with warmth. The softness and sincerity in her smile and her words when she told him that he wasn't a bad guy touched a string deep inside him. He knows this is not the right moment to let his mind wander and ponder over what that moment of closeness meant or could mean, not the right moment to get distracted from what his mission really is here; but he can store it away for later.

When he finally falls asleep an hour later, knowing that Emma is safe and separated from him only through a door, he does so with a little smile on his face.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Snow is cold, rain is wet  
_ _Chills my soul right to the marrow_

  
  


The next morning, Henry is already settling down at the breakfast table eyeing the cocoa Killian put in front of him before pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Anything amiss, my boy?” he asks.

“Almost perfect,” Henry comments and motions for a little spice shaker on the rack above the sink. “I'll just add a little cinnamon on top.”

“Cinnamon, you say,” Killian comments and reaches for the shaker, passing it under his nose. “Hm,” he grumbles condescendingly, “this is only a shallow excuse for the spice you find on the market places of India, Aruba... Agrabah.”

The boy's eyes widen. “Agrabah?” he echoes, bewildered. “Like in _Aladdin_?”

Killian frowns. “Am I supposed to have heard of him?” he inquires.

“A thief who helps the princess of Agrabah save her kingdom from an evil wizard,” Henry explains.

“Intriguing tale,” Killian comments, “however, it's been a few decades since I was last there, and back then everything was fine. In fact, coming to think of it, the people were celebrating the birth of the princess.”

Henry snaps his fingers and grins triumphantly. “Jasmine!” he exclaims.

Killian is partly impressed, partly confused. “You know her?”

But before the lad can explain any further, Emma comes shuffling out of the bathroom, still in her pjs, her hair in a messy pony tail.

“Morning,” she murmurs and slumps down on her chair beside Henry's, nudging his shoulder with hers. “Sorry, it got late last night.”

The boy's expression is one of horror. _“Mom?!”_ he exclaims. “What happened?”

She frowns, apparently having forgotten about the purple bruise blooming under her left eye, its color darker than the night before. “I said I was sorry, kid. What–”

“Swan,” Killian cuts in and motions ho his own face to remind her, and her eyes widen when she understands.

“ _You_ tell me!” Henry demands. “Was this the guy you were after?”

“Yeah, but _he_ looks worse,” Emma tries to make a joke of it which seems to upset the boy even more.

“And you're seriously trying to tell me that life is safer _here_?” he blurts out and points at her face in an almost accusing manner. “ _Look_ at you!”

She raises her hands in a useless attempt to soothe him. “It's just a bruise!”

“He could have had a _gun_!” Henry's voice is more than upset, it's almost a little shrill, and Killian feels both for the boy and for Emma who cringes at her son's obvious distress.

She places a hand on his arm. “In Storybrooke there are guns, too!” she argues. “And being a law enforcer means–”

Henry snatches his arm away from his mother's hold, and Killian's heart clenches at the hurt in her eyes. “It doesn't mean you have to deal with the scum a bailbonds person deals with every day!” the lad snaps. “Often enough you just have to investigate... some of Leroy's stupid beefs!”

“And sometimes someone shows up who wants to rip out your heart,” she counters fiercely.

Henry snorts. “Yeah, but in Storybrooke you'd have _magic_ to defend yourself!” he tells her in an almost triumphant voice.

Emma sighs and looks down at her hands, folded on the table. “Henry,” she says as quietly as matter-of-factly, “you know that Zelena took my magic.”

But the boy shakes his head wildly, setting the brown hair in motion that reminds Killian so much of Bae as a boy. “Her curse was broken, and she lost all her power,” Henry reminds her. “All results of her magic have been undone!”

Emma shoots him a glance, and for the first time there's anger flashing in her eyes. Her anger looks sort of defensive, the tiniest bit. “Well, my powers didn't come back,” she replies almost defiantly.

The lad jumps up from his chair and almost knocks over his long forgotten cocoa. “Because you don't _want_ them!” he accuses.

She flinches at his words. “Henry–”

“Because _not_ having your powers back,” he interrupts furiously, “made it a whole lot easier to come back to New York and pretend to be somebody else!”

And with that, Henry grabs his book bag and storms out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Emma, despite her obvious shock about his allegations, reacts immediately, instinctively, and jumps up, ready to dart after him.

“Swan, don't!” Killian, who has quietly watched the heated interaction between mother and son – because it isn't his place to interfere, and because he couldn't outright admit that he thinks Henry's right – grabs her arm and stops her from following the boy.

She protests, “But I have to–”

“Leave him be,” Killian insists firmly and doesn't let go of her arm, and finally she spins around and glares at him. “Going after him would be useless now,” he adds almost apologetically, and finally she draws a deep breath and nods in a resigned sort of way, slumping down on her chair again.

“You're probably right,” she grumbles.

“Coffee?” he asks matter-of-factly.

“Please,” she sighs, and he pours her a big mug and then sits down across from her. She murmurs a thanks and takes a sip.

Killian has the impression that on the one hand, she isn't keen on talking, but on the other hand she wants to say something. So he waits and drinks his tea, quietly scrutinizing her. Emma doesn't even seem to notice, as her eyes are turned downwards onto the dark steaming liquid in her mug. He studies her troubled face and wishes she could see herself through his eyes, then she'd realize that hers the face of a woman who is not at peace with herself, a woman who is torn by the multiple struggles within: her reality at war with her own beliefs, her stubbornness and fear fighting against her longing for happiness, her walls protecting but also caging in her heart that so desperately wants to be free.

His heart is aching, because he loves her so bloody much, more than anything, but that's irrelevant for now. More so, if he throws his feelings into the mix in this already tricky situation, she might block him out completely and retreat even more into her shell of self-deceit. Confused as she is, that would be her typical mechanism of defense.

Finally, she looks up at him, wariness in her eyes. “Do you think the same?” she asks cautiously, and at first, he's at a loss as to what she's talking about, but then she clarifies, “That I'm just _pretending_ not to have my magic back?”

“He didn't say that, Swan,” Killian tries to play it down, because she has a point there – the lad _could_ have meant _just_ that.

She huffs. “Oh, I think _pretend_ was exactly the word he used!” she points out.

“Aye,” Killian admits slowly, “but he said you were pretending _to be somebody else_ , not that you were pretending about your magic.”

She narrows her eyes. “Isn't that the same?”

“Oh no, it's not.”

“Fine, and what _do_ you think?” she wants to know, a little unexpected anxiousness in her voice that touches him, like it always has when she seemed to be genuinely looking for his advice or opinion.

Tilting his head, he carefully weighs his words. “I think that if your magic had come back back in Storybrooke, it would have been far more difficult for you to claim that you don't belong in a world with magic.” He watches her quietly, a little nervously, because since he came here, this is the first time he's expressing anything remotely critical about her decision, and he's not sure at all how she's going to take it.

With a loud clank, she puts down her mug, spilling a few drops of coffee on the wooden surface of the table. “And? So you're saying I'm faking it?” she challenges.

“Absolutely not,” Killian tries to soothe, hoping that she doesn't close down. He doesn't want to scare her off, but he also knows that she needs to hear some truths. “But I've found the subconscious to be very strong,” he says and, when she frowns in confusion, adds, “If you strongly reject something... it's very likely to stay away.”

Emma presses her lips together and averts her eyes. He can see the struggling emotions on her face, and he wishes nothing more than to help, make it easier for her... but persuasion wouldn't be the right way. After a few moments, she turns her eyes back to him. “You're on his side, aren't you?” she inquires suspiciously.

“I wasn't aware there were sides to pick?” he asks back softly, and she snorts. “Look,” he continues, “you and your boy... at the end of the day, you do want the same thing.”

“Are you serious?” she huffs, her vice dripping with sarcasm.

Killian nods. “Of course,” he affirms. “You both want to find a home, and to be happy.” He tilts his head in a shrug. “You just have different opinions on how to get there.”

She sighs. “Yeah, that seems to be exactly the problem.”

“Swan, give it time,” he coaxes. “You've been here for what, two weeks? You will be on the same page again eventually, I'm sure.” He chooses his words carefully, making sure not to say anything that goes against what he really believes, because he knows Emma would easily detect a lie. And because he knows that only honesty – and not trying to trick her into something she isn't really convinced of at the bottom of her heart – will bring success in the end.

She sways her head doubtfully. “Well, I hope sooner than later.”

Later that day, when she's at work, two aspirins dulling the throb of her bruise, Emma can't stop thinking about Henry's outburst. She isn't delusional enough to downplay it as a mere teenage tantrum – she's aware of the shock it must have been for him, seeing her like this (even if it might look worse than it actually is), realizing that she got hurt in a very real, physical way, and that something similar – or something even worse – could indeed happen any time again. Which is valid, of course, but on the other hand it's like she told Hook: she can very well take care of herself. And life is dangerous everywhere, that's a fact. But the magical, yet very real dangers of life in Storybrooke, as the Savior, are simply not in the picture in New York City, _that's_ a fact, too. She only wishes Henry could finally accept that.

Maybe she can get Hook to talk to Henry – they seem to get along well, and even if it pains her to admit it, at the moment her son seems more open to listen to an ancient pirate sprung from a twisted tale than to his own mother. It surprises her a bit that Hook hasn't once tried to change her mind on the subject, but so far he has indeed been honest in everything he'd said to her. Honestly, it also surprises her a bit that he hasn't once tried to make a pass at her... when she packed up and left Storybrooke, she didn't expect him to give up that easily, and when he showed up at her door with his tale about a new start and his hopeful smile, she expected him to try and get close to her, especially given their housing arrangement. But no, there hasn't been a single lewd remark, not even an innuendo, no inappropriate touch or glance. He seems to have accepted the loud and clear message she had sent during their time in Storybrooke after he'd brought her back. As if that wasn't already exceptional for a man, he even seems to be content with her offer of mere friendship. Which is a relief. Conveniently, she ignores the little voice at the back of her head, barely more than a whisper, and its murmurs of disappointment.

Yes, it seems like a good idea to ask for his support. She shakes her head at herself with a little smile when she realizes that she's starting to rely on him. _Starting to?_ she mentally snorts at herself. _Whom do you think you're kidding?_

She feels a little lighter, more optimistic about the whole situation, when she has decided on that, and takes an early leave. Much to her surprise, though, Hook isn't at home when she gets there, and he hasn't left a note either. Shortly after her arrival, Henry gets home from school, and she acts like nothing has happened, and so does he, disappearing into his room, murmuring something about _a ton of homework_ and avoiding to look at her face. It hurts her heart; she wishes nothing more than to get back to what she had with her son before everything went upside down, back to the quiet life of happy ignorance they lived before she gulped down that damn memory potion and remembered everything about her fucked-up history. Even going back to their relationship in Storybrooke would be better than how they are with each other now; she won't lie to herself, her relationship with Henry in Storybrooke has always been one of honesty and affection, closer than any mother-son-bond she has ever witnessed. Emma wants that back, desperately. But she's smart enough not to press him now, that would be the completely wrong approach.

Damn, if only Hook came home soon.

She's a bit irritated at herself for being so anxious about his absence, because... well. She handled herself pretty well before he came along, and it's not like she needs him now. It's _not_.

She's flipping through a magazine, sipping a cup of coffee, when she finally hears the key in the lock, and she buries her nose deeper in the paper, pretending not to notice Hook entering the apartment. He really doesn't need to get any wrong ideas about her waiting for him.

“Evening, Swan,” he greets her, “sorry, I'm late.”

She looks up, feigning confusion. “Late?” She glances at her watch. “Oh, I haven't even noticed it's already dinner time.”

He beams. “I brought pizza from Henry's preferred place,” he announces, putting the boxes on the kitchen counter, “to celebrate.”

“Celebrate?” Emma echoes and frowns. “What's the occasion?”

“You'll be happy to hear it,” he predicts and shrugs out of his leather jacket. Only after he's hung it neatly on the coat rack he continues, “I found an occupation today.”

That takes her completely by surprise, although it shouldn't, because frankly, it was only a matter of time. “You got a job?” she asks. “Where?”

“Not far,” he explains, “at the tavern around the corner.”

“At the...” She raises her eyebrows in confusion. “A bar? Which one?”

“Just two blocks Southwest.” He chuckles when he sees her grumpy cluelessness and explains, “out of the building, turn left.”

That rings a bell, even if she never went out much during the year she spent here. “McFly's?” she asks, and he nods slowly.

“Aye, that's how it's called, I think.” He fetches two bottles of beer from the fridge, opens them, and saunters over to the couch to hand her one and sit down beside her. “I'll be done being a burden on you soon,” he adds almost casually, and an inexplicable feeling of dread settles deep in her stomach.

“What do you mean?” she wants to know.

“The owner of the tavern owns a few apartments in the same building, too,” he tells her brightly, “and one of them will be vacant in about two weeks.”

“So soon?” she blurts out, and _fuck_ , this came out the wrong way, somehow. “I mean, you're gonna need a lot of stuff to–”

“Oh, it's furnished,” he says and takes a deep gulp of his beer, “it's perfect.”

“Well, that sounds great,” Emma comments with weak conviction and clears her throat. “And what kind of job is it? Bouncer?” she asks, determined to change the subject a bit and blend out the fact that he's going to leave their arrangement soon.

He frowns. “I'm not exactly sure what that is, but actually, I'm hired to tend bar.”

“Really?” she blurts out. “Uh, no offense, but... they really hired a one-handed barkeeper?” She motions to his prosthesis – damn, she always wanted to ask him where he got it.

When he doesn't reply right away, she's afraid she might have said something wrong – and suddenly she remembers how often she's been flippant about his physical defect, and for the first time she feels really guilty about it. She searches his face for hints of hurt or indignation, but he doesn't seem to be offended. Finally, Hook tilts his head and tells her, “I poured a few drinks, and they seemed to think that my charming personality outweighs my physical defect.”

He raises his eyebrows and grins, and she feels an absurd twinge of jealousy at the thought of people she doesn't know getting to experience his charming personality. Somehow, it feels an awful lot like... _losing_ him. Immediately, she scolds herself for even having such thoughts – because they are ridiculous. It's not like she has a right to... like she has any _business_ to... before she can grasp the thought, examine it any further, Hook's amused voice brings her back to the here and now as he pulls out his phone.

“I have to tell Dave about this,” he chuckles.

Emma is completely flabbergasted. “You're texting _my father?!_ ” she blurts out, disbelief and a rising anger coating her voice.

He looks at her questioningly. “I'm messaging him, yes.”

A little harder than intended, she puts her barely touched beer down on the coffee table, next to her mug, her thoughts racing. “So you're reporting to him,” she states in an icy voice, “is _that_ what you've been doing since you arrived here?”

“I beg your pardon?” _Now_ he seems offended, at least a bit. “Swan, all I did was let your father know I got here safely, and that you and your lad have resumed your normal lives,” he tells her in a serious, calm voice, and she knows right away that he's not lying. Immediately, she feels a little guilty for accusing him. “I apologize if I overstepped any boundaries by doing so, but I felt I owed that much to him,” he continues and explains, “He was the one who helped me get equipped for this world, after all.” Without hesitation, he hands her his phone and offers, “Do you want to read my messages?”

Emma raises her hands in defeat and shakes her head. “No, no, it's fine. I believe you,” she assures him sheepishly and sighs. She realizes she sounds like she wants to cut her parents completely out of her life. “You know, it's not like my parents haven't heard from me since I came here,” she tells him. “I texted them when we arrived, and also a few days later to say hi and tell them everything is okay.” She shrugs. “I just haven't... called them. _Yet,_ ” she adds quickly. Hook just nods but doesn't comment on that, and she feels the urge to explain herself. She licks her lips and combs her hair behind her ears with all ten fingers. “Look, it's been... barely two weeks. I know they miss me, miss _us_. I... I wanted them to... sort of get used to it before I talk to them again.” She's dismayed to realize how weird, almost absurd she's sounding. “Before they hear my voice,” she quickly goes on, before she can think about it too profoundly, “So that it's sort of... maybe easier for them, you know?” _And before I hear theirs._ She can't stop herself in time before thinking it, and now it's too late. _She hasn't heard her parents' voices in two weeks._

“I understand,” Hook's soothing, low voice interrupts her miserable thoughts. “There's no need to feel guilty, Swan. I'm sure they understand, too.” He tilts his head. “They're used to it.”

She frowns. “Used to what?”

“Being separated from you,” he clarifies. “Since you broke Regina's Dark Curse, they've been separated from you longer than not. Even if they miss you, all they want for you is to be happy.” He gives her a tiny smile that's obviously supposed to be encouraging, and somehow it _is_ , but it also holds a touch of profound melancholy. “And,” he adds, “at least this time, they have the certainty that you remember them and think of them occasionally.”

Emma swallows, weighed down by a sudden guilt. “What do you think, how was it for them during the past year?” she asks anxiously. “Knowing I... had no memories at all of them? That there was no way to reach me?”

Yes, they had ushered her away for her own good, because a nasty curse had been threatening them, because it had been the only way for her to be able to stay with Henry. Again, they were giving their daughter – and their grandson – their best chance and sacrificed their own happiness for it. But this time – _this time_ going away was _her_ choice, she wasn't trying to escape any immediate threat. That must have increased the pain her parents felt, to know that she was going away willingly, even if the goodbye wasn't forever. That she just... dismissed them.

She doesn't know what she's looking for in his answer, but there's a pause as Hook's expression becomes serious and intense. Their stares sink into each other and lock, and no words are necessary to know they are both thinking back to that moment of goodbye a little over a year ago, forced upon her so fast that she didn't even have time to process what was going on, to understand what it _really_ meant – that she most likely would never see either of them again. She hears his voice again, remembers how it shook her to the core, how his words made her get an inkling of what was about to happen.

_There's not a day will go by I won't think of you._

Only that she wasn't the one who had to live with the consequences of that goodbye – because _she_ forgot about it the moment she crossed the town line. Those left behind had to deal with it – her parents, her friends – _Hook_. And now, they have to deal with it again, per her choice.

“Devastating,” he finally answers her question with a single head shake, “it was devastating.”

Emma can't take her eyes off his, and she reads in them he's reliving the painful moment, too. “You think?” she whispers.

She knows they're not talking about her parents anymore, it would be stupid to deny the obvious – that he's talking about his own pain. If there was ever any doubt, he obliterates it when he replies in a low, fragile voice, “I _know_.”

Suddenly, another moment springs to her mind, happened not very long ago, only a few weeks... right before she finally followed her gut feeling and took the leap of faith the crazy leather-clad guy was daring her to take. After she had downed the memory potion and remembered everything, events had spiraled out of control right away, and so she simply forgot what Hook had said to her before she accepted the vial... but now she remembers. She remembers his pained expression, and she remembers his words.

_Perhaps there's a man that you love in the life that you've lost._

Perhaps there _was_... she doesn't know, she truly doesn't. She only knows that she's confused, aching, searching. _Longing_. And his presence is so... familiar, and soothing, all quiet persistence. He's solid as a rock, _her_ rock. Like drawn by a magnet, she leans closer, slowly, their eyes still locked, and his eyes widen for a second before they go completely calm, like he's encouraging her by doing... _nothing_. She can't explain it, but she also can't ignore it. Briefly, her gaze flickers to his slightly parted lips, and she gravitates closer still...

They jump apart when suddenly the door to Henry's room is thrown open.

“Do I smell pizza?”

“Uh... yeah,” Emma mumbles, being the first gathering her wits. She jumps up from the couch and rushes to the kitchen cupboard to get plates and set the table. “Killian brought some.” She doesn't see his lips twitch when he hears her say his given name.

“Cool.” Henry shuffles into the kitchen to help setting the table, and finally Hook gets up from the couch, too, to join them.

Emma avoids looking at him even though she can feel his eyes rest on her, she just can't bring herself to meet his gaze. In fact, she's barely resisting the urge to flee the scene and hide in her room to try and process what just transpired between them, to calm her rapid heartbeat and her nerves that are singing with confusion and something else she doesn't understand. But that would be childish and immature.

Killian feels just as confused as Emma does, part of him is elated – _because bloody hell, she was about to kiss him!_ – and part of him is even more anxious than before. That she's avoiding his gaze now and looks like she wants to literally dive and disappear into her pizza, doesn't help with his anxiousness. That he isn't sure whether to be annoyed about the lad's interruption or relieved, doesn't help with his _confusion_.

So, they are having a rather awkward dinner; nobody seems very keen on talking, not even the lad, which is quite understandable. Henry avoids looking at his mother's face – the purple bruise on her cheek fading into a slightly less angrier blueish green – and Emma avoids looking at Killian. It's no surprise to him, that after finishing his pizza rather hastily, the boy disappears into his room again, mumbling something about homework. Expecting for Emma to do the same after loading the dishwasher, he just quietly puts on a kettle with water and fetches himself a mug.

With barely veiled disgust, he takes one of the little bags with the modern world's poor excuse for tea from its box, when Emma surprises him by saying, “Can I have one, too?”

He whirls around to her. “Tea?” he asks incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Of course.” He fetches her a mug and a teabag, too, and the kettle starts to whistle. She sits down at the table again, and he's grateful for the occasion to turn away from her when the water boils. He has to concentrate on not spilling the hot water when he pours it into the two mugs slowly, meticulously – taking a few extra seconds to calm his thoughts. Emma Swan not running away from a tricky, confusing, emotionally demanding situation? He's not sure, again, if he should be worried or glad about that.

Almost reluctantly, he turns around again and puts one of the steaming mugs in front of her, then sits down again, waiting, scrutinizing her expectantly. She looks down into the hot water that's slowly darkening as the color from the teabags seeps into it. When she finally looks up, it seems like she has to pry her eyes away from her mug before fixing them on his.

“I'd like to talk...” she begins hesitantly, and he sighs.

“Love, we don't have to–”

“...about Henry,” she finishes quickly and swallows nervously (and maybe a little guiltily), but doesn't look away.

It's Killian's turn now to avert his eyes for a moment, doing his best to hide his disappointment about that unexpected, but not really surprising reply. Leave it to Emma Swan to ignore the obvious. “The lad?” he finally says. “What about him?”

She draws a deep breath, and he finds the tiniest hint of regret in her expression, but honestly, he's not sure if it's just wishful thinking on his part. “I was wondering,” she starts, “if you could talk to him.”

That takes him by surprise. “Talk to him?” he echoes and frowns in confusion. “About what?”

“About...” she pauses and fidgets with the little paper tag on the teabag, then she sighs and explains reluctantly, “about _this_.” She motions to her face. The bruise. “He... he needs to understand that this isn't...” she pauses again to struggle for the right word, waving her hand through the air aimlessly, “what he's making it out to be.”

“But it's not nothing either,” Killian counters, “and seeing you like _that_ ,” he motions to her face, “surely was a shock for him.”

Emma rolls her eyes, because yes, of course he's right (and she _hates_ that). “Let's be honest,” she argues after a moment, “we both know this could as well have happened in Storybrooke, and he's using it to prop up his argumentation.”

Killian tilts his head. “Well, he's a smart lad.”

Emma nods. “Listen, I understand it's not easy for him,” she admits, “but he doesn't even _try_ to be reasonable.”

“I'm not sure you can expect him to see things in a _reasonable_ way,” Killian replies and points out, “He may have lived through a lot more than his contemporaries, but he's still a child, Swan.”

Emma huffs, “A stubborn teen is more like it.”

He raises his eyebrow in a teasing way, in an attempt to lighten the situation a bit. “Well, your father said stubbornness runs in the family...”

“Very funny.” She shoots him a not-too-serious death stare. “Henry has always been a smart kid,” she emphasizes – _yet again_ – and complains, “Why can't he see that it's much safer for him here?”

It has happened very rarely to Killian, that he's feeling a little exasperated by _her_ stubbornness, but it's happening now. He can feel the frustration bubbling up in his throat. “Perhaps he's too busy watching out for flying monkeys attempting his mother's life,” he counters with dry sarcasm.

Emma glares at him again. “What's that supposed to mean?”

He raises his hand and his prosthetic in a soothing, almost defensive way. “All I'm saying is... don't you think that this... _safety_ you so adamantly locate here in the Land Without Magic... isn't much more than an illusion?” he probes and adds, “And I'm _not_ talking about the shiner you got there.” He motions towards her face. “The past has proven that if magic's after you, it will find you even here, like the Wicked Witch's lackey did.” He tilts his head. “Like I did.”

“You don't have magic,” she replies almost defiantly, completely ignoring the essence of his words.

“And I have only one hand, I know,” he snarks back and raises his eyebrows. “That's not the point. You know what I mean.” She averts her eyes a little sheepishly, and he continues, “Who you truly are will always catch up with you at some point.” He nods to himself, remembering for a moment how hard he tried returning to his pirate life during the last year, and how he failed miserably. He draws a deep breath. “Look at Bae – he did all he could to cut all the connections to his old life, but at the end he couldn't escape his identity.”

Emma looks him directly in the eyes. “Yeah, and now he's dead,” she replies matter-of-factly and slowly shakes her head. “I'm not going to risk putting my son in danger by letting magic back in his life.”

“It's not the magic he's missing,” Killian reminds her quietly, internally slapping the back of his own head for being imbecile enough to bring up Bae – he should have known she'd use that example for her own advantage.

At first, she doesn't answer, because what could she say, after all? Of course Henry's wish to go back to Storybrooke has nothing to do with magic, they both know it. After a while, she lifts her chin in that stubborn gesture that reminds him so much of her mother, the princess bandit.

“So, you're not gonna talk to him?” she assumes.

Killian sighs. “Swan, I'll gladly talk to your boy if you think that could be of any use,” he concedes and adds firmly, “but I shall not downplay what happened to you and claim that it's nothing, because it isn't, and saying otherwise would be an insult to your lad's intelligence.” His eyes bore into hers, not allowing her to look away. “Take it from me,” he goes on, “if you're denying the obvious, he will take that only as a confirmation that his reservations are justified.”

She purses her lips grumpily, and he knows it's because _she_ knows he's right. “Alright, then _'give him time'_ is all you're gonna say?” she probes.

He tilts his head in a nod. “I'm afraid it's the only advice I can offer at this point. I'm sorry.”

“Hm,” she grumbles, “me too.” Then she pushes back her chair and gets up, turning away from the table, leaving her untouched mug there.

Emma is mentally and emotionally exhausted beyond mere frustration, it feels like she's been treading water for two weeks, just not to drown. It's like she's stuck, and she has to face it, this isn't good either for her _or_ for Henry. Even though Hook has been completely unhelpful this time, outright refusing to talk to Henry in the way she'd intended, she can't bring herself to be mad at him. Because, she admits it quietly to herself, he is sort of right. Henry is smart. Of course it isn't all sunshine and roses here in New York, and acting like it is, is indeed an offense to Henry's intelligence, and would play into his stubbornness even more. Yes, the perp could have had a gun, and she could have ended up severely wounded, if not worse. She shivers a bit at the thought.

But she's still convinced that her decision to move back to New York was for the best, and _not_ only for _her_ best, like Henry assumes – and like also Hook accused her of once, back in Storybrooke. She's glad he obviously changed his mind and has accepted her decision now, but at the back of her head she can still hear his voice. _What's best for him? Or for you?_

Emma Swan is not the one for girly things, but she does enjoy a hot bubble bath from time to time, especially when she just wants to feel cozy and protected, and shut out all the worries and annoyances of the world. And now seems like a good occasion for that.

But of course she isn't able to shut out _everything_ completely... once her nerves have calmed down a bit about the tense situation and constant struggle with Henry, her memory inevitably drifts back to that moment before Henry came out of his room. Hook and his magnetic blue eyes, the melancholy and sincerity in them, and the damn _intensity_... only a few weeks ago, that expression was scary enough to make her want to run and hide away from those eyes. Today, she was drawn to them, and to kiss their owner seemed the natural thing to do. Which she finds extremely unsettling now, and particularly unhelpful. The situation with Henry is confusing and scary enough, she doesn't need anything to make her life even more confusing and scary – also, there's really no way to be be sure if Hook will continue to be a part of her life for much longer, given that he's found himself a job now and already hinted at moving out soon. Which should not be a surprise, honestly, because their arrangement was always meant to be a temporary one. So she really shouldn't even contemplate – but then, nonsense, she hasn't been contemplating anything. That sort of... almost-kiss was nothing but a moment of confusion and weakness. _A one-time thing._

Emma groans and lets herself sink under water.

When she forces herself to get out of the tub much later, the water is already cooling, and it's getting quite uncomfortable. Dressed in her favorite comfy sleeping clothes, she sneaks out of the bathroom, hoping for everyone to be asleep already, but the floor lamp beside the couch is still casting its faint light. A quick glance shows her though that Hook is apparently asleep under his blanket – a book is resting on his chest, and his head has rolled to the side.

She knows she probably shouldn't, but it's like her socked feet are moving by their own will, carefully avoiding that one particular creaking floorboard. Emma feels a little guilty, almost like an intruder, as she's standing beside the couch and looking down on the sleeping figure. With his features completely relaxed in his sleep and the pirate attire replaced with a soft grey cotton Henley, Hook looks vulnerable and a little younger than the last time she saw him asleep – at the campfire in Neverland.

She leans down to take the book that has fallen from his hand and smiles to herself when she sees it's a copy of _The Ugly Duckling_. When she lifts it off of his chest, he stirs in his sleep, and the blanket slips a little, revealing his left arm. As his sleeve has ridden up to his elbow, she gets a glimpse of his forearm without his hook or prosthesis for the first time. Again, she can't help it, but has to examine it curiously; the mutilated wrist looks less marred than she expected. The arm just ends at the wrist; there is shiny skin and scar tissue, yes – but apparently the centuries have smoothed it. When she catches herself wondering how it would feel underneath her fingers, she quickly shakes her head to snap out of it, also because it feels like overstepping the line of his protected secrets, knowing that he probably wouldn't like her to see him like that. Emma takes the edge of the blanket with her fingertips and carefully pulls it up to cover him again.

Then she turns off the light before tiptoeing to her room for a long night with only little restless sleep.

The next day, Emma decides to pick Henry up after school when she leaves work – maybe she can get him to talk, remind him of some of the things he used to love when they were living here. Maybe just a little mother-son-bonding. Reluctantly, he gets in the car when he spots the yellow bug waiting for him.

“We could have walked,” he comments grumpily, like he's mostly these days.

“I know, but we're going shopping,” Emma replies brightly.

“Shopping? What for?”

“Groceries,” she explains. “I'd like to cook something tonight, and I'm not sure what. You can help me decide.”

“Hm.”

She sighs to herself when she's parking her yellow bug in front of their fave grocery store two blocks from their apartment building. She didn't expect to spark Henry's enthusiasm that easily, but she hoped for a bit more of goodwill. Well, maybe he'll warm up a bit to her choice of food.

“I was thinking we could make tacos, that was always so much fun?” she suggests while she pushes the shopping cart through the aisles, followed by a pointedly disinterested Henry. “I'm sure Killian likes them, he probably never had them before.”

“Oh, so now we're playing family?” he gripes, clearly not indifferent anymore.

Emma is genuinely surprised at his gruff reaction. “But I... I thought you liked him?”

“ _I do!”_ Henry snaps and runs his hand through his hair, a pointed gesture that's equally frustrated and angry. “That's not the point!”

She stops dead in her tracks, so abruptly that he bumps into her. “Okay, kid,” she presses through clenched teeth, barely able to hold in her own frustration, “Tell me one thing. _How long?_ ”

He frowns. “What?”

“How long do we have to play this game?” she wants to know in an exasperated voice.

Henry snorts. “ _You_ tell me!” he shoots back. “How long are you gonna pretend that we actually _belong_ here?!” Before she can reply anything, he shakes his head and turns around. “I'm gonna walk back home, I need fresh air.”

“Henry!” she calls after him and then hisses a curse. Her first impulse is to run after her stubborn son, but then she refrains from it. Probably it's better to give him some time to cool down; Hook would surely tell her so. She frowns for a second at the thought, then finishes her shopping. They _will_ have goddamn tacos for dinner.

Fifteen minutes later, she's worked herself into a pit of frustration again. Seriously, she just can't win with Henry. Angrily mumbling to herself, she stuffs the various paper bags with her groceries into the trunk of the bug – the trunk is of course small, and it seems she forgot a card box with books inside when they moved here from Storybrooke, so the room is scarce. Well, this is great.

“Swan?” Suddenly, to her surprise, Hook is walking up to her. “Is everything alright?”

“What are you doing here?” she snaps, her voice a little harsher than she intended. “Why aren't you home?”

“I worked at the bar for about four hours, just to see how it goes,” he explains, and inevitably, she feels her mood sink even lower. He frowns. “What's wrong?” he asks. “Another argument with the lad?”

Emma huffs. “He hates it here!” she blurts out. “He hates everything!” She runs her hands through her hair in sudden despair.

“Well... if you're being honest...” He tilts his head. “Does that really surprise you, Swan?”

“He isn't even trying!” She hates the accusing undertone in her own voice, it sounds more than just a little whiny. “And he used to _love_ our life here!” she professes. “He likes going to school, he has friends, all commodities, the big city... it was a _good_ life!”

Hook bends down to pick up one of the bags she's deposited on the sidewalk. “Of that I have no doubt, love,” he comments.

She glares at him. “Are you trying to be funny? 'Cause it's not working!”

“Most definitely not,” he tries to soothe and hands her the bag so she can safely store it away in the trunk. “I meant what I said. I'm absolutely sure you managed to build a life for the two of you with everything a lad like Henry could wish for.”

Carelessly, she stuffs the groceries in the trunk and snorts. “Well, obviously, I suck.”

“That's not the reason, Emma, and you know it.” His voice is patient but adamant, not allowing any of her subterfuges.

“But our life is the same as it was a few weeks ago!” she insists stubbornly.

Hook sighs. “Aye, but _he_ isn't.” She presses her lips together and abruptly turns away. “Look, I know you don't want to hear it,” he continues relentlessly, but gently, “but a few weeks ago, he didn't know any better. He didn't know who he really was. He didn't know he had a family... that you _both_ had a family.”

Slowly, she moves her head to look at him again. “You think I'm selfish, right?” she demands to know, cold anger in her voice.

“No.” He shakes his head once calmly, imperturbably. “I think you're a great mother who would do anything to keep her son safe and happy.”

Emma folds her arms and raises her chin. “Annnnnd here comes the big _but_?” she assumes.

“ _But_ ,” he confirms her suspicion, “you're also someone who won't do the same for herself.”

“For myself?” she echoes and frowns. “Of course I'm keeping myself happy, too. If my son's happy, I'm happy.”

He tilts his head in that infuriating, convinced way of his. “Well, if that were true, you would be in Storybrooke,” he tells her. “Because we both know _he'd_ be much happier _there_.” Emma presses her lips together, fury bubbling up her throat. “No,” he goes on, “you pretend that everything's perfect here, that you have all you need, and by doing so deny yourself your own happiness.”

Oh, he can tell her about her son's feeling all he wants, but here he goes all _you're an open book_ again, arrogantly telling her everything she never wanted to know about _her own_ feelings. Insinuating that he knows better than _she_ does what's best for _her_. How _dare_ he? _Lass, I know you better than you know yourself._ As if. How _the fuck_ dare he?

“Will you _stop_ analyzing me and evaluating my life?!” she snaps. “Why are you so goddamn sure that I don't have all I need to be happy? Why can't you just accept–”

“Why can't _you_ just accept who you really are?” he interrupts, his voice losing its calmness and sounding upset now for the first time. He points his index finger at her. “Because unless you do that, unless you stop pretending to be somebody else, you will never find what you're looking for!” he predicts.

Emma slams the trunk shut, the old metal screeching and clanking in protest and accuse. “What the fuck do _you_ know about what I'm looking for?” she snarls. “Why do you even care?!”

He seems to be losing his countenance. _The nerve!_ “Because I can see you're miserable!” He raises his voice now, something he has barely ever done with her; a sign that he's clearly distraught.

It's getting better and better, isn't it? He's explaining her own feelings to her now? Claiming she is unhappy, when he's really just pissed off that she didn't fall into his arms when he showed up at her door, how delusional can one unnerving, self-opinionated man be?

“That's none of your business!” she tells him sharply, her voice assuming a slightly shrill nuance. “Why are you even here?” She waves her hand at him in a derisively dismissive gesture. “I didn't ask you to follow me!” she points out. “Stop acting like you're a part of my life, Hook, you're _not_!” If she notices him duck his head when she uses his moniker again instead of his name, she pretends she doesn't, and chooses to ignore it. She goes for the kill instead, adding in a cold voice, “I don't need you, and I don't want you.”

At first he flinches at her words, like she's stabbed him right in the gut. There's a terribly long pause before he straightens his back, and even before she sees his face fall, the hurt veiling his eyes, she regrets her words. His jaw clenches visibly. “Point taken,” he replies flatly, and she thinks, _fuck_.

Instinctively, she reaches out for him. “Killian, I–”

He takes a step back, gravitating away from her, so that her fingertips merely brush the cool sleeve of his leather jacket. He shakes his head, his voice seemingly calm now. “I apologize for imposing my presence and my advice on you, I truly never meant to.” His detached, overly polite tone is worse than a slap in her face, and her brain tries desperately to think of how to end the devastating silence. Killian draws a deep breath. “Take it from me as someone who attempted and failed,” he says with deep melancholy in his voice, rough and edgy now, “you can try to get back to your old life all you want, Swan, but make no mistake: walking backwards will never get you home.”

And with that, he turns around and walks away. Emma can only stare at his back in shock, trying to process what just happened, how this escalated so quickly. She tries to will him to turn around and look at her, but he just... _doesn't._

She lets out a long breath, almost a sigh, and closes her eyes, desperately trying to shut out the world for a few blissful instants, hoping to make it disappear, the unpleasant feeling of deep shame that's overwhelming her right now. Killian Jones is the one who's always been standing by her side imperturbably, supporting her and having her back, even when she's done very little to encourage him. Ever since he's turned his ship around to pick them all up and take them to Neverland of all places, on a rescue mission for a boy he barely knew, he's always been there for her, even when she didn't want him to – and did everything to make sure he understood that. She's dismissed him as untrustworthy and selfish, and downright mocked and insulted him, and he _still_ has been supportive during those last two weeks, and now she basically kicked him in the face.

Emma gets into her car and drops her forehead on the steering wheel, cursing herself. _Because I can see you're miserable_ , he said, dropping one of his painfully accurate truth bombs, another one of those being, _U_ _nless you stop pretending to be somebody else, you will never find what you're looking for._

 _Home_ , that's what she's looking for, what she's been looking for all the time, during all those years in the streets, the foster families and group homes, even with Neal, and in Boston. And yet, she never found it. Until Henry showed up at her door on that fateful evening of her 28th birthday, right after she'd made the wish that she'd never have to be alone again. A wish that seemed to have come true, because it brought her the rest of her family, and friends, and a place where she... _belonged_? Why the fuck is she realizing this only now? _God, what does it matter if I'm in a stupid book?_

She straightens her back and looks into the rearview mirror, flinching when she sees the healing bruise under her eye. It's a lighter shade of purple now, but it's still clearly visible. Yes, this could have happened also in Storybrooke. But _yes_ , the perp could have had a gun – and _that_ just _doesn't_ happen in Storybrooke. The only guns she's ever seen there belong to the sheriff's department: her own, and her father's. Yes, magical threats don't exist here – but in Storybrooke, if another threat _should_ occur at some point, she wouldn't be alone to face it: she has her family, her friends – a whole social network actually – and Henry's other mom, who has become somewhat of a friend, an ally at least, a powerful magic wielder to stand beside her. And her own magic – who knows, maybe Henry and Hook are right (most likely they are), and her magic comes back if she just... allows it.

And her family – God, she misses her family. Her mother and her sometimes annoying optimism, her father and his quiet, pragmatic support, and his bear hugs. Really, no one gives hugs like her father does. Her baby brother she hasn't had the chance to get acquainted with.

She shakes her head at herself and says to her own reflection, “What the hell am I doing here?”

Five minutes later, she's running up the stairs to her apartment, too impatient to wait for the old, creaky elevator; too eager to talk to Henry, and to apologize to Killian. There's a lot they have to talk about, especially with him, and she can't wait to tell him – _tell him what?_ She isn't even sure, she'll just let the words tumble out and go with the flow for a change.

She's out of breath when she throws the door open, but she still has enough breath to call out for him, “Hook!”, expecting to see him at the kitchen table, broodily staring into a steaming mug of tea, but he isn't there. Quickly, she scans the living room, but there's no sign of him. She storms through the hall and knocks at the bathroom door.

“Hook, are you in there?” she asks impatiently, “Can we talk? Oh come _on_ , don't...” She falls silent when she realizes there's no sound from inside. With a frown, she turns the doorknob and carefully peeps inside, only to find the bathroom empty. “What the...”

Cluelessly, she turns around, scanning the apartment again, and then her gaze falls onto a shiny metal object on the coffee table, gleaming accusingly at her. With three long steps she's there, and her heart skips a beat when she immediately recognizes what it is: the spare key to the apartment she gave him.

“No...” she murmurs and picks up the key, turning it in her fingers.

And then she sees it. Or, to put it correctly, she _doesn't_ see it – his kitbag. With all his belongings. It's gone. _He's gone._

 


	4. Chapter 4

_I won't be happy till I see you alone again  
_ _Till I'm home again and feeling right_

 

Emma's mind is racing as she stares at the key in her hand, the key Killian left on the coffee table near the couch he used to sleep on. Where he deposited it before he stuffed all his belongings in his kitbag and walked out of her apartment. Out of her _life?_ Just when she was about to tell him that she was ready to go home?

Then a thought hits her, and she calls for Henry, panic obvious in her voice.

Almost immediately, the door to his room is thrown open, and he bursts out, startled. “Mom! What's wrong?”

“Did you talk to Killian?” she asks in an urging tone. “He must have been here not long ago!”

But Henry shakes his head. “No, I didn't see him. I heard the door, but I thought it was you.” He frowns. “What happened?”

She licks her lips and swallows, her mouth is so dry. “We... we had a fight. I said something... hurtful, and _God_ , it's not even true.” She runs her hand through her hair in an almost desperate gesture.

“You had a fight?” Henry echoes in an alarmed voice. “About me?”

“What?” Emma's eyes widen. “No, not about you,” she assures. “About... about everything.”

“I'm sorry, Mom.”

The guilt pierces her heart. “Henry, it's not your fault!” she clarifies firmly. “It's mine.”

“No, I mean...” –he looks a little sheepish, “I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time. I... I know you think you're doing what's best for me.”

Emma sighs and takes a step nearer, daring to put a hand on his shoulder, endlessly relieved when he doesn't shake it off. “Actually, no,” she finally admits and shrugs. “I... I'm just scared.”

Henry frowns in question. “Of magic?”

She shakes her head and slumps down on the couch. “No, kid,” she tells him and explains, “Of... of losing what I love.” She looks at him with a plea in her eyes, a plea for understanding, hoping that a twelve-year-old is able to grasp the concept of her abandonment issues, her ever-present fear of loss.

“Look, for as long as I can remember,” she continues, “every time I found a place – _people_ – where I thought, maybe this is it, maybe _this_ could be home... I lost it. Every time.” He sits down beside her, for the first time in three weeks a sympathetic expression on his face. It gives her hope. “This is why I was scared of accepting... but no more of that now.” She straightens her back. “I don't want to run anymore,” she declares firmly, and it's meant as much for Henry as it is for herself. “I don't wanna be scared anymore.”

Hope glimmers in the boy's eyes. “Does that mean...”

Emma puts a hand on his arm, and again, he allows it. “We'll talk about that later, okay?” she pleads, when she suddenly remembers her current predicament. “First, I need to find Killian.” She jumps up from the couch again. “God, I really screwed up, and he left, and I don't know where he went...”

“Mom! Don't panic.” Henry raises his hands. “We'll find him. Have you tried to call him?”

Emma whirls around to him, and she almost wants to slap her forehead for not thinking about the obvious. She snatches her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and selects Killian's icon from her contact list. Her heart beats frantically as she's listening to the dial tone, but then she hears the computer voice of the mailbox. She shoots Henry a desperate glance. “Mailbox. Looks like he doesn't want to talk to me,” she says and throws her hands in the air. “God, I can't even blame him.” She starts to pace back and forth, at a loss for what to do.

Henry sighs, apparently not half as much in panic as she is, which surprises her somehow. “And you call _me_ stubborn,” he remarks, a faint hint of sarcasm in his voice. “But don't worry, thank God you have a smart kid,” he informs her a little pompously.

She frowns. “What?”

He pulls out his phone and all but waves it in her face. “I installed a tracking app on his phone,” he reveals nonchalantly.

“You _what?_ ” she gasps.

He shrugs. “I did it when he asked me to show him a bit what he could do with his phone.” He can't help but wink at Emma with boyish glee. “I thought it could come in handy.”

“I'm... I'm pretty sure that's illegal,” she tells him half-heartedly, but actually she can't hide the relief she feels.

“Yeah, so is locking up people and stealing their ship,” Henry remarks casually and starts to type on his phone, “But sometimes it's necessary.”

She doesn't really know what to reply to that. “I... okay.” She combs her hair behind her ears with all ten fingers, trying to rein in her nervousness. “What if he turned off his phone?” she asks. “What if he doesn't want anything to do with me anymore?”

“ _Mom.”_ Henry lifts his head and gives her a reassuring look. “Does that sound like Killian to you?” he asks back, a rhetorical question. “Look, he's probably upset and maybe not ready to talk right now, but I'm sure he doesn't intend to stay away for good.”

Emma sighs doubtfully. “How can you be so sure?”

Henry rolls his eyes. “Because he isn't the type who is easily pushed away,” he explains, and she remembers that this is Henry, the truest believer of them all. He hasn't been wrong often. “You tried that already, and it didn't work, remember?” he reminds her cheekily. “So, before we panic, let's just see if...” –a wide grin splits his face. “Ah yes, there he is.”

Her eyes widen, and she can feel the excitement bubble up in her throat. “You got him?”

He grins and presents her his phone. “Here you go. You're welcome.”

She's already heading for the door. “Kid, I–”

“Mom, you need the phone,” he stops her, “and leave me yours, in case you want to reach me.”

“Oh... of course.” Hastily, she hands him her phone and takes his. “How–”

“Just follow the dot,” he ushers her, “now _go!_ ”

Twenty minutes later, she parks her car at a big guarded parking lot in South Street Seaport and hurries along the street, her eyes scanning the pier as she keeps checking the blinking dot on Henry's phone. Finally, she sees a lonely figure in black on a bench looking out on the water. Emma closes her eyes for a moment in endless relief and slowly breathes out. Then she straightens her back and slowly walks over to him.

He seems to be so lost in thought that he only looks up when she's standing right in front of him; a slight annoyance creasing his forehead when his lifts his gaze to her, but that's quickly replaced by almost shock-like surprise when he sees who is disturbing his quietude.

“Swan?”

“Killian! Thank God I found you,” she blurts out, not even trying to hide her relief.

He frowns in confusion. “How did you know–?”

“I'll explain later,” she replies and motions vaguely towards him. “How did you even get here so fast?”

“I took one of the yellow carriages,” he explains calmly and leans back, scrutinizing her in quiet astonishment.

She smiles at his description of a cab. “Of course.” Throwing a look over her shoulder, she takes in the scenery; she can't remember that she's ever been here. Even though it's rather picturesque, a cold dread grips her heart with bony fingers. “Were you planning to–” she hesitates and motions her head towards the harbor area, “–to find a ship and...” She lets the sentence hang unfinished in the air, just can't bring herself to say the words.

His eyebrows shoot up. “Run away?” he asks, a bit of a sting in his voice, and shakes his head once. “No. I just needed to see the horizon. It calms me.”

“But you weren't planning to come back either,” she says, deliberately keeping any reproach out of her voice, and points at his kitbag lying beside his feet.

He averts his eyes for a moment. “To the apartment? No,” he replies flatly, and her heart sinks. “I was going to ask the proprietor of the tavern if I could find shelter in some back room for a few days, until the apartment was ready.”

“I see.” Emma decides not to further comment on it and motions to the bench. “May I?”

He just tilts his head in a nod, and she sits down beside him. Trying to figure out his mood, she finds he doesn't seem angry, but more broody. Anyway, she's nervous about his reaction; not because she's about to apologize, she doesn't have a problem with that, but because she's about to talk openly about her feelings, her fears and insecurities, she's about to open up and lay her heart on the line, and _that_ scares the shit out of her.

She licks her lips. “Killian, I... I'm sorry,” she begins, because yeah, first things first. “I truly am.”

His lips pull into a smile, but it's a melancholic one, on the brink of sadness. He shakes his head. “You don't have to apologize for how you feel, Swan.”

“But it's not–” She raises her hands in defense. “What I said isn't true,” she points out. “It's not what I feel.” He doesn't reply, he just looks at her, eyebrows raised in question. She draws a deep breath, trying to gather some courage. “You were right.”

“About what?”

She shrugs. “Back in Storybrooke, you said to me, I was afraid of staying, because I could see a future there, a happy one.” She looks down at her hands. “And that was true. Still is.” She swallows and raises her head again, firmly and deliberately looking into his probing eyes, and confesses, “I'm scared.”

He cocks his head to the side, his searching gaze resting on her. “Why?” he asks gently.

She sighs. “Look, for most of my life I was alone. And all I ever wished for was... for that to end.” She crosses her arms, almost wrapping them around herself in a protective gesture. “And then, suddenly, I had a family, friends...” She shrugs, and it gives her a very girlish, vulnerable air. Then she adds, “People who care about me. And that's terrifying!”

Killian nods slowly when he understands – because he's been there, too. The moment when he turned his ship around to try and _be a part of something_ , allowing himself the thought that maybe, _just maybe_ he didn't have to be alone and miserable anymore... it was a crucial moment. And to let in hope again, it felt good... but at the same time also utterly terrifying.

“Because you're afraid to lose it again,” he murmurs, speaking to himself as much as to her.

“That's what happened every time before,” Emma confirms. “Every time I started to feel like I... I could truly _belong_ somewhere, _with_ someone...” She has to pause for a moment, because fuck, it still hurts, reminiscing all those occasions when she has been screwed over by fate or by people, left behind, pushed aside. Yes, it hurts. But she feels instinctively that it's important to admit that now, especially to herself. Only that way, she understands now, she'll ever be able to shake it off and overcome her fear. “I lost it,” she finishes her sentence. “ _Them_.”

“So, by not allowing yourself to belong with someone,” Killian concludes, “you're just protecting your heart.”

She nods. “I know what you're gonna say.”

“Really?” He raises his eyebrows in question. “And what's that, Swan?”

Emma shrugs. “My wall can keep out pain,” she says, “but it's gonna keep out... everything else, too. Happiness.”

“Hmmm...” He purses his lips and lets his gaze sweep over the horizon for a moment before he rests it on her again. “Whoever told you that, seems to be very smart... and the owner of a very big heart.”

She huffs a little laugh. “It was my mother.”

“Ah.” He smiles and tilts his head. “Well, I have to say, I'm not surprised, and she's not wrong.”

Emma licks her lips as she tries to find the right words. “I told myself, I could make a happy life here, with Henry,” she begins, “and pretend to be somebody else, but... it's not working.” She shrugs and confesses, “I... I miss it.” Nervously, she searches his eyes and finds them resting calmly on her, while he's listening intently. “I miss my parents,” she goes on, “I miss my friends. I miss being the sheriff, and Granny's grilled cheese, hell, I even miss Leroy!” She shakes her head, as if she's appalled by the absurdity of her own words. “And I realized one thing: When Henry brought me to Storybrooke, and he told me I was the Savior... I didn't see what he was really doing.” For a moment, her gaze is drifting somewhere else, lost in the past, as another piece of puzzle suddenly falls into place. “He was not bringing me back to break a [curse](https://onceuponatime.fandom.com/wiki/Dark_Curse). He was bringing me home. And I wanna go back.” She looks at him almost pleadingly, and Killian gives her the tiniest, encouraging nod while the skin around his eyes creases in a barely perceptible smile. She draws a deep breath and raises her chin. “I wanna go _home_.”

Killian swallows and nods. “That's good to hear.” He rubs his index finger lightly over an imaginary spot behind his ear. “ I had faith you'd realize it eventually.”

“I think _realizing_ it was not really my problem,” she comments dryly.

He acknowledges her self-irony with a little grin. “No, of course not. But I also had faith you'd _accept_ it eventually.”

Emma nods and looks down at her hands, resting in her lap now, with her fingers knotted together. His gaze follows hers, and from the tension in her fingers he can tell there's more weighing on her mind, maybe also on her heart, and he can feel his own heartbeat in his throat.

“I accepted something else, too,” she confesses after a moment of silence, her voice a little nervous. Killian hikes his eyes back up to her face, and slowly, she lifts her head again to let her eyes meet his, and to answer his unspoken question. “If you weren't here,” she continues, “I would miss you, too.”

Without realizing it, he swallows and forces himself to breathe in and out calmly and slowly, which suddenly has become very difficult; this is the first time Emma Swan seems to be hinting at her feelings for him, and in a very tangible way. He knows that she's been having them, but she's also been denying them for a long time. Now she chews on her lower lip and lets her gaze sweep through the air restlessly, as if she can't think of the right words and tries to find them somewhere written in the clouds.

Then she blurts out, “Of course you're part of my life, you have been for quite some time now, and I can't imagine...” She lets the sentence hang unfinished in the air and draws a deep breath before she finally fixes her gaze on his again. “When you left earlier, I thought I'd... I'd lost you.”

Her voice sounds a bit strained now, like she's desperately trying to keep calm, obviously just as nervous as he is, and a warmth blooms deep in his chest when she reaches out for his hand and slips her fingers inside, their cold tips curling against his palm. Without thinking, he brushes his thumb over her knuckles, her gesture encouraging the minute caress.

He shakes his head. “Emma, you could never–”

“Look,” she interrupts, “I don't... I don't _need_ you. But I... I...” She seems to stumble over her words, maybe surprised by her feelings, maybe afraid of her own courage. He waits patiently; somehow, he has the feeling he's got all the time in the world now. Then Emma takes a deep breath and finally gets the words out, “I _want_ you.”

She falls silent and watches him searchingly, and Killian senses, _hopes_ with every fiber of his being that with her declaration she means more than just finally giving in to their mutual attraction. Her careful, tender touch and open, almost pleading look surely insinuate so. But his own heart is battered and raw, maybe as raw as hers, and he needs the reassurance, needs it desperately.

“What does that mean?” he finally asks in a rough, yet hopeful voice, his eyes searching hers, his thumb never ceasing to caress her fingers. Her fingers that are holding on to his hand, as if she doesn't want to let go.

“What you said to me, in Neverland,” she replies, and his thoughts are racing, trying to get what she's talking about, because there are so many things he has said, and so many things he _hasn't_. Emma chews on her bottom lip for the tiniest moment of hesitation, but then she says it:

“You won my heart, and I want you. I want _to be_ with you.”

At first, he still doesn't trust his ears. _I want to be with you_. He tilts his head in some sort of incredulous wonder and replies almost solemnly, “You want to be with me?”

She smiles nervously and shifts nearer, leaning a little forward, while he remains motionless, breathless. Carefully, she raises her hand to his face, almost like she's afraid that touching him would break the spell. He throws a brief sideways glance at her hand, but then he locks his stare with hers again, and maybe the quiet warmth in his eyes gives her that little extra courage, so she finally lays her fingertips almost shyly against his scruffy cheek. The moment he feels her touch on his skin, he can't help but briefly close his eyes, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment, even if very little has happened – yet so much. When he opens his eyes again, he sees that she is slowly coming closer and closer, and his lips part automatically a little, all by themselves. The instinctive gesture isn't lost on Emma, and for the fraction of a second, she glances at his mouth.

Then she's here, and she closes her eyes before she closes the final distance between them and touches her lips to his, leaning into him, her cool palm flattening against his jaw. At first, he remains passive, motionless almost, as if he's afraid to make her shy away if he moves. But she gravitates impossibly closer, leaning heavily into him, her other hand coming up to lay against his chest. This is not the composure of a woman likely to shy away because of a response from him; on the contrary, she seems to be seeking it.

So, he wakes from his immobility and pushes forward carefully, only with the tiniest pressure, to show her he's here, and he's heard and understood what she just said to him. Her mouth opens under his, and she sighs when he kisses her back and brings his hand up to cup the back of her head and hold her safely.

When their lips finally part, the anxiety hits him again immediately, and he's half expecting her to pull away, to tell him it was a mistake, or another _one-time thing_ , or...

But then she smiles. Bashfully, chewing on her lower lip again, as if _she's_ the anxious one, but she doesn't avert her eyes, and so he's privy to seeing sparkles in them that let every star he's ever navigated by pale in comparison. He returns the smile, mesmerized, because what else can he do? Bringing his fingers to her jaw, he mirrors her tender gesture, his thumb stroking her cheek, while he's trying to process that this here is happening for real, and not just another one of the countless dreams he's had about her.

No, this is real: Emma Swan just kissed him, and she does not regret it. Emma Swan wants him. She wants _to be with him_ , and she isn't afraid to admit it. With a little tilt of her head she bumps her nose against his, delighting him with the playful, tender gesture, a display of casual intimacy that would blow him off his feet if he weren't already sitting.

Finally, he breaks the silence and asks, “So... how _did_ you find me?”

Emma grins and puts her left hand over his right still resting against her cheek, her palm suddenly warm now. More casual intimacy. “With something that Henry did with your phone.” When he raises his eyebrows in question, she explains, “He installed an app that... allowed him to track your phone.”

“Ah.” He lets his fingers slip from her cheek and curls them around hers. “Sort of a locator spell, then?”

She huffs a little laugh. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head and teases, “Sometimes magic does come in handy, doesn't it?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “That's not–”

“I'm just joking,” he interrupts with a smile. “I know it's one of those modern things I still have to learn about. I'm glad you used it to find me.” He gets up from the bench and pulls her up with him, thrilled by how eagerly and naturally she follows. “Come on, Swan, let's get you home.”

They don't talk during their drive back to the apartment, but neither of them feels it's necessary; partly, because both are lost in their respective thoughts, and partly, because it's a comfortable, companionable silence. From time to time, Emma throws a sideways glance at Killian and finds his eyes quietly resting on her, the tiniest smile shining in their corners. Then she presses her lips into a little smile of her own and looks back at the road ahead, eager to get them back.

When they arrive and enter the apartment, Henry is awaiting them anxiously, and she could slap herself on the forehead that she hasn't thought of letting him know that she found Killian. But it looks like he doesn't mind; the obvious change of atmosphere between the two of them seems to be enough to relieve him, and he just greets Killian with a nonchalant wave, his eyes fixed on hers expectantly.

“Come on, kid, pack up your stuff,” she tells him right away. “We're leaving for Storybrooke tomorrow.”

Henry's eyes widen, he throws Killian a quick questioning glance, but he just raises his eyebrows and tilts his head. Henry looks back at his mother and asks, “What now, are we visiting?”

“No, kid.” Emma combs her hair behind her ears with both hands and licks her lips a little nervously, then takes a deep breath. “We're going back for good.” She, too, glances at Killian who gives her an encouraging nod paired with a proud smile, and she adds with emphasis, “We're going home.”

“Awesome!” Henry blurts out and, without further ado, disappears into his room fast as lightning to start packing.

Killian drops his kitbag on the floor beside the couch, where it has been for the last two weeks, and turns to head to the door again.

“Where are you going?” Emma asks, with only little alarm in her voice.

“Telling the tavern owner that he has to look for someone else to tend bar.” He tilts his head. “I could use my telephone, but it's good form to tell him personally, I think.” Emma nods with a smile, and he offers, “Do you want me to bring something for dinner? The pizza the lad loves? Something else?”

“Actually, I bought everything for making tacos,” she answers and grins brightly. “There's no reason why we can't make them.”

“Whatever your heart desires,” he replies, and even though it's probably just his typical pompously gallant way of talking and not meant to have any double meaning, Emma feels her cheeks warm up a bit.

Quickly, she turns around to the kitchen counter and just throws over her shoulder, “Doesn't take more than half an hour.”

“I'll be back on time,” he promises, and that's exactly what happens.

They have a really pleasant dinner with a lot of laughter and easy-going conversation, nothing like the days before with their strained, uncomfortable silence and the tension, especially between Emma and Henry. But none of that is left now.

They take their time without haste, and after they're done, Henry disappears into his room to make a few goodbye calls (because yes, he does have some friends here) and to call Regina to share the news, and Emma goes packing her stuff while Killian loads the dishwasher; he has nothing left to pack, all his belongings are already safely tucked away in his kitbag.

He settles down on the couch and pours himself a decent amount of rum – he hasn't had any in days, and he hasn't missed it; and now he plans to enjoy and savor it, as for once it's not bound to be a means of distraction, to forget his problems or drown his pain. That doesn't seem necessary anymore.

Killian allows himself a few moments of revisiting the events of the afternoon, of processing what has happened. He still almost cannot believe it – but he's been replaying the scene again and again in his head, and it _definitely_ happened: Emma Swan misses Storybrooke and wants to go _home_. And Emma admitted to her feelings for him. He isn't sure what the outcome of this will be, and he doesn't want to get his hopes too high – but one thing is clear, she made a huge step forward. She took a leap of faith, just when doubt started to slowly trickle into his heart.

Half an hour later – he's almost dozing off – Emma comes out of her room and flops down on the couch, beside him. She reaches for the tumbler of rum in his hand.

“Can I have a sip?”

He smiles. “Of course, love.” How could he deny her anything?

She takes a sip and hands the glass back; when his fingers close around hers, she doesn't let go of the glass immediately, and he strokes his thumb across hers. She smiles and averts her eyes for a second, and he detects the faintest blush in her cheeks.

“I called my parents earlier,” she then tells him, “and they didn't know we were coming.”

“Well, how would they?” he asks, frowning.

Emma shrugs. “Obviously, I thought you'd told them.”

“That's not my place to do.” He tilts his head. “Besides, you deserved to share the news, and they to hear it from you.”

She stares at him for a moment with her mouth hanging slightly open before she presses her lips into an incredulous smile and shakes her head. This man is really something. But she doesn't comment any further.

“You ready to go?” she asks instead and motions to his kitbag.

Killian nods and puts down his glass. “I didn't have much to pack.”

“Yeah, me neither,” she replies with a nod. “I've always traveled light. I found it makes for a quick and easy escape.”

He raises a questioning, slightly alarmed eyebrow. “Are you having second thoughts?” he probes.

Without hesitation, she shakes her head. “No,” she replies firmly and adds, “Now that I've accepted my fate, nothing's gonna hold me back.”

He frowns. “Whoa, Swan, you sound like you're heading for your own execution.” He tries deliberately to keep a light and playful tone to his voice, but a little cloud of worry briefly shadows his face, she can clearly see it.

She huffs an apologetic little laugh. “No, I'm just kidding,” she assures and looks at him very seriously, almost solemnly. “Really. I want this,” she confirms with utter conviction, but without a more detailed specification, and shifts a little hearer, until they're sitting so close that their thighs are pressed together. Then she leans forward in clear intention and clarifies, her voice not more than a husky murmur, “I want... _this_.”

This time, after only a very short moment of hesitation, Killian gravitates towards her as well, more confident and less shocked than earlier at the docks. Her eyes glitter and her mouth curves up when she notices his move, and they are both smiling when their lips touch. They share a very soft and tender, almost chaste kiss at first, but soon they seem unable to pull apart, their mouths inseparable, as they get lost in exploring each other with slow and thorough kisses. They aren't exactly of that feverish, almost frenzied kind like the one they shared in Neverland what seems like ages ago; but the way their lips move against each other is languid and sensual and toe-curling in the best way. Killian's hand cradles Emma's head, and as he isn't wearing anything with lapels, her fingers curl into the fabric of his henley while she molds herself into him until she's so close that she's almost sitting in his lap, his left arm supporting her back.

At some point, they have to pull apart to get some air, and after a few deep breaths Emma moves to dive right in again, but Killian gently stops her with his fingers at her jaw and his thumb on her lips.

“We should,” he murmurs in a hoarse voice, barely more than a breath, “get some rest.” There's clearly regret in his tone, and that soothes Emma's disappointment a bit. His thumb softly caressing the dimple in her chin while their foreheads are still leaning together might soften the blow a bit, too.

She understands why he's holding back, because he sort of doesn't want to take advantage of her current, obviously emotional state, and because he wants to get her home first. Also, it might be a bit much for Henry if he came out of his room and saw them making out, even if she suspects he isn't oblivious to the development between them. Somehow, Killian's thoughtfulness is very heartwarming and makes her feel safe – like he's _really_ looking out for her and her needs, and also her son's. Although she would love to stay like this for a long time (if not forever), kissing him and feeling his gentle touch on her, she knows this is not the time and place for that. So she nods.

“Do you mind if I sit here for a bit?” she asks.

His immediate reply gives her an inkling that he would love to continue, too. “Of course not.”

She waits a bit, looking at him expectantly, until he understands and averts his eyes in an embarrassed smile for a second before he lifts his arm so she can properly slip into his embrace and put her head on his shoulder. Killian leans his scruffy cheek on the crown of her head, peace and warmth settling into him as he slowly dozes off.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, she isn't there anymore, has obviously retreated into her room, but his blanket is draped over him to keep him warm, and he can still smell her scent on his shirt where she had rested her head. With a smile, he stuffs his pillow under his head and settles in for the rest of the night.

The next morning, they all rise and shine early, and an excited buzz seems to hang in the air as they have their breakfast. It gives him another déjà-vû of a morning a few weeks ago, of a very similar, yet so different occasion. Emma was reluctant then, still shocked by the realization that her life had been a lie, not really wanting to go back to face another magical threat to her family; Henry, like every teenager, wasn't averse to an adventure that regaled him with a few days away from school, but other than that, the trip meant nothing to him. And he, as the bearer of bad news, did his best to keep the mood light, but with Emma's obvious grudge the whole thing was a bit awkward.

But not today. He watches quietly as Emma and Henry finish the pancakes he made for them, their favorite breakfast, as he has learned, and they keep exchanging almost conspiratorial glances, their eyes full of smiles and anticipation, both obviously eager for what lies ahead of them.

After they have gathered all their stuff – not that much, really – Emma locks the apartment carefully and without a single hint of regret. They manage to fit everything in the trunk of the yellow bug, and Henry climbs into the backseat, leaving the passenger seat to Killian.

The drive is long enough, but they aren't in a hurry, taking their breaks to stretch their legs and get some food, and when they finally cross the town line hours later, it's already dark. Emma pulls over and stops.

Killian throws her a searching look. “Everything alright, Swan?”

“Yeah, everything's fine,” she replies and turns a little in her seat to face him. “We're really back.”

He nods. “That we are.”

He isn't taking her statement as some declaration of doom or something like that, because he has already taken in the soft and almost incredulous expression on her face, mixed only with the slightest nervousness. She might need just a little push of encouragement, he thinks, and Henry has dozed off in the backseat a few miles ago. So he reaches out for her hand on the gear stick and briefly gives a reassuring squeeze. He can practically feel how the grip of her fingers on the stick loosens just a bit, and she draws a deep breath and smiles.

Killian nods again, returning the smile, and suddenly looks down at his prosthesis, as if he just remembered something. After a brief pensive moment, he grabs it with his hand and twists it until it clicks audibly and detaches from its brace.

“What are you doing?” Emma asks with a frown.

He looks at her again and tilts head. “You know, Regina made this for me before I left. I like what this thing can do,” he then says, “but it's just...” He stops and licks his lips, a little unsure of how to explain that strange notion, hoping she might not think he's out of his mind.

But she smiles in understanding. “Not quite right?” she guesses, and he quickly scratches behind his ear, a little embarrassed but also sort of thrilled that she seems to read his thoughts so clearly.

“Aye.” He fishes deep inside his kitbag, and after a brief search, he pulls out the shiny, metal object that's been missing from him for the last two weeks, the familiarity of it making Emma smile – his hook. He holds it up between them and throws her a questioning glance. “Unless you mind?”

“I missed it,” she simply replies much to his joy and wets her lips, only slightly nervously. “May I?” She motions to the hook.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise and looks down at the sharp steel in his hand. “Of course,” he then says and holds it out to her, but she doesn't take it.

Instead, she draws a deep breath and flicks her wrist tentatively in a fluent move of her hand, and the hook is gone from his grip and safely attached in its place. Emma bites her lip and grins like a mischievous child and looks up at him, her eyes sparkling with girlish joy, like a few weeks ago when she was practicing her magic and tampered with his hook, too; only now, he isn't weighed down by a dangerous secret and can rejoice in her pride.

His lips pull into a wide smile that shows off the dimples in his scruffy cheeks. “Your magic,” he states almost solemnly.

“Yeah,” she replies, “looks like you were right, you and Henry.”

“And how does it feel?” he inquires, and she shrugs.

“Quite right.”

“Mom?” comes Henry's sleepy voice from the backseat. “Where are we?”

“Just crossed the town line, kid,” she informs him and adds matter-of-factly, “my magic's back.”

“Told you,” comes the prompt, only slightly smug reply, and she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, yeah.” She starts the motor again and warns him, “Stay awake, we're almost there.”

“You know they're expecting us at Granny's, right?” Henry tells her.

Emma sighs. “Too late to turn back, I suppose?” she jokes.

“Way too late,” Killian agrees.

“Well, then.”

Ten minutes later, Emma parks in front of the diner, and they get out of the car. Henry does his best not to hop up and down like some undignified fourth grader while Emma needs a moment to brace herself.

“You alright, love?” Killian inquires and resists the urge to take her hand. This is not the moment to distract her; besides, he quietly and somewhat reluctantly admits to himself, he isn't so sure if she would be comfortable with such a move, or would rather see it as boundary crossing at this point.

She chews on her lip for a second and throws a nervous glance at the door. “So, this is it?”

“If you want it to be,” he replies gently, and she turns around to look at him just when he raises his hook to smooth out her hair, the familiar gesture she's missed, and just like that, everything falls into place and feels right.

Yes, two weeks ago she left Storybrooke for New York, left her family and her friends behind, not because of a curse, but because she chose to. And now, for the exact same reason, she returns – to a little, not even particularly picturesque town in Maine that shouldn't even exist, to her parents and a agglomeration of weird extended family and friends. More than that: Emma Swan returns _home_. Not because of a curse in need to be broken or a realm to be saved, but because she _chooses to_.

She smiles at Killian and grabs his hand with her left, and Henry's with her right. “Alright, let's do this,” she says firmly, and she doesn't have to tell them twice; Henry is pulling at her arm like an excited young dog on his leash, and Killian is following eagerly and with a smile that's equally proud and happy, the warmth of her fingers against his making his skin tingle.

When they enter the diner, there's loud cheering, and Killian half and half expects them to be pulled apart by the various members of the welcoming party, but somehow everyone seems to be willing to give them time to adjust. Finally, Regina takes one step forward, and Henry throws himself in her arms. Emma's parents are slowly rising from their seats, their baby sleeping in his carriage.

Killian lets her fingers slip out of his, and she walks over to them. He can see her mother's eyes glitter suspiciously, and even the prince's seem of a more glistening blue than usual.

“Mom, Dad...” Emma murmurs as she stands in front of them, and then she finally throws her arms around them both. “I missed you!”

The three of them hug tightly, and Killian feels a smile pull at his lips, nothing could make him happier than seeing this Lost Girl finally find her home. He feels only a little melancholy pull at his heart, but after a few moments David, who is cradling his daughter's head in his hand, throws him a glance and a barely perceptible nod, and somehow it feels like he's welcomed, too. Almost like he... belongs.

He scratches behind his ear and averts his eyes, and that's when he sees the transparent hung from the ceiling, obviously hand-painted, that says _“Welcome home Emma and Henry”_ , and someone has drawn two little, slightly crooked hooks to the left and right of the letters, and _yes_ , he's a pirate, and he's never in his long life aspired to be _liked_ by people, but _this_... this is making him feel ridiculously warm and fuzzy inside.

Emma's mother lifts the baby out of the carriage so that Emma can say hello to her brother, and her father makes his way over to Killian, wordlessly holding out a glass of beer to him. Killian takes it and acknowledges the gesture with a nod.

“How did you do it?” the prince wants to know right after clinking their glasses together.

Killian tilts his head. “I didn't do anything, mate,” he clarifies and adds, almost proudly, “She came around all by herself.”

David shrugs and takes a gulp of his beer. “Yeah, well, I'm sure you had _something_ to do with it, even if it was just your presence.” He's clearly giving him credit, where Killian isn't sure it's deserved, and he sways his head in a doubtful not-quite nod. The prince clears his throat, apparently looking for the right words to say what's on his mind. “And did you... could you... clear things up between the two of you?” he finally asks.

Killian eyes Emma's father warily. “I think... I think we made progress,” he then replies carefully, choosing his words with caution. Suddenly, under the prince's scrutiny, he's not sure if they were careful enough, and hastily adds, “I mean, I _don't_ mean–”

“Please,” David interrupts and raises his hands. “Whatever you mean... it's good.”

Killian swallows and decides to push his luck a little further, given the obvious momentary leniency of the prince. He probes, “Then you're not opposed to...?” He lets his words trail off and braces himself for the response.

David sighs, and for a moment, it seems a bit like he's in pain. “She's still my little girl,” he says. “Of course I'm opposed to...” –he pauses and crinkles his princely nose in disgust, “knowing... _things_ about her that are not a father's business knowing about his little girl.” Killian glances down into his beer and feels the tips of his ears grow warm, but then he forces himself to look back into David's eyes, because the father of the woman he loves deserves to look right into his. “But I'm not opposed to her finding happiness,” he continues. “You told me how you feel about her. And if you're the one to make her happy, how could I _not_ approve of you, after everything you've done?” Killian feels the muscles in his abdomen relax a little as he lets out a breath of relief. David raises his glass to him again. “I'd be crazy not to.”

Killian nods, a sincere smile crinkling the skin around his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Killian.” He turns around when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder and finds himself face to face with Emma's mother. The princess bandit smiles openly at him. “I'd like to thank you,” she tells him sincerely. “You brought my daughter back to me, for the second time.”

He tilts his head in an almost apologetic way, trying his best not to cringe at her praise that is utterly and completely undeserved. “As I already told Emma's father, milady, it wasn't really my merit,” he objects. “Emma just needed the time to realize where she belongs.”

She rolls her eyes in that typical way that always made him fear they'd get stuck in the back of her head somehow. “Yes, and she also needed to see that there are people who care for her and stand by her side,” she insists and pokes his chest with her index finger. “You were that person, when David and I couldn't.” Her green eyes are of an intensity that reminds him of Emma in a startling way, and after he reacts with a reluctant nod, she adds, “And... you could really call me Mary Margaret, or Snow, if you prefer.”

Relieved that the conversation is navigating to lighter subjects than him being called almost something like a hero (even the thought seems absurd), he tilts his head in a bow. “I'm honored by the offer,” he replies, “but if you don't mind, I like _milady_.” His lips pull into a teasing grin. “It suits you.”

Mary Margaret raises her chin in that stubborn way he he has seen Emma do a few times, too, and glares at him for a moment, as if she's contemplating whether she should take his words as an insult or a compliment, but he has a feeling that she isn't actually contemplating it; she's just teasing him back. Finally, she purses her lips and nods. “Fine then.”

In the following hour, it seems like everyone is stopping by at least briefly to welcome back Emma and her lad, and Killian receives surprisingly many smiles and – sometimes shy – welcome-backs, friendly nods and back slaps, and the grumpy dwarf even shoves another glass of beer into his hand. Most of the time he's watching Emma soaking up the crowd and the words of welcome, and not once does she look uncomfortable to him. More than once, he thinks he notices people ask her if she's really going to stay for good, and most times she confirms with a nod and a smile. His heart swells with pride and happiness at how natural and content she seems as she moves among the people who are her friends and her family, and also her home now – and she doesn't seem to mind.

And indeed, she doesn't.

Emma is slowly getting the hang of it, being a part of something, but this time _really_ being a part of it – like being part of a puzzle that makes the whole picture complete. _She_ makes it complete, because she belongs here, and crazy as it is after it took her so long to realize and accept it – she can't believe now that she refused to see it for so long, when it was so clear all the time. Her eyes scan the room for the person who, for the longest time, was both the thorn in her side and the support in her back.

When she spots him sitting at the bar, toasting his beer glass to _Leroy_ of all people, she finds that his eyes are quietly resting on her. The moment he notices her glance, his lips pull into a smile, an almost bashful one, which she returns.

She can admit it now, she was a little nervous about how it would feel to come back, to see all the people she left behind without hesitation mere two weeks ago, to be sucked into this microcosm, absorbed by it. For a tiny moment, when she got out of her car, she was afraid it could scare her, bring back the urge to run away and be on her own again, but that fear lasted only for the fraction of a second. No, she's finally truly _a part of something_ now. And it feels good.

When Henry asks her if he can go home with Regina for a few days, she can't do anything but hug him and assure him again that she will not change her mind and that she's well aware now that this place, these people are their home.

Not much after that, her parents – who have admirably kept themselves from monopolizing her – seek her out as she's just finished talking to Belle, still stunned about the news that she and Rumple really tied the knot.

“Emma?” She feels her father's firm hand on her shoulder, realizing once more how much she's missed him and his reassuring touch.

“Yes?”

He motions to the baby carriage. “It's time to get your brother home.”

“Oh. Yeah, I...” She pauses, for a moment unsure what to do, but then her mother interrupts her thoughts.

“Here,” she says and puts a key in her hand. “I brought your key.”

Emma looks down at it. “Right.” She hesitates and throws a glance over her shoulder to the booth where Killian is sitting, without even noticing it. “Uhm, I... I'm not sure when...” Her voice trails off, and she feels like a teenager, and _that_ is something she could do without, but she guesses there's a first for everything.

Mary Margaret smiles. “It's okay, Emma. You're an adult.” She motions her head to her husband. “We all are. And we know you're...” Mischief lurks in the corner of her eyes as she briefly glances over at Killian and finishes pointedly, “in good hands.”

Emma blushes and huffs a nervous chuckle, and David crinkles his nose in annoyance. “Yeah... that was uncalled for,” he grumbles and presses a quick kiss to her temple.

Then they leave the diner, and Emma turns around, her eyes searching for Killian again. He hasn't moved from his spot, like he's waiting for her, and she thinks he's been waiting long enough. _They've_ been waiting long enough.

She walks across the room and slips into the booth beside him, stealing his beer glass and taking a sip. He grins at her cheekiness and asks, “So, how do you feel? Any regrets?”

She smiles and nods slowly, pensively, struggling to find appropriate words for this new feeling. “It feels... right,” she finally says and thinks it might be a bit lame, but a look at his expression tells her that he understands exactly what she means. “And no regrets yet,” she continues and shrugs. “But who knows, when I get back to being the sheriff and have to break up the first bar brawl with the dwarves, I might feel a _little_ regret.”

He reads it on her face that she's just joking and that she's at ease and relaxed and _at home_ , and he thinks she doesn't look like someone who's about to run, and that makes _him_ feel at ease. Breathing seems a lot easier since they arrived here; he has to admit to himself that for a moment he was worried she might shy back from the overwhelming feeling of finally finding a home (because he _knows_ how truly overwhelming that an be), but that feeling disappeared as soon as he saw her fall into her parents' embrace without hesitation.

Emma's smile turns into a quiet, serene glow, and for a moment, there's an unreadable expression on her face. “I'd like to get out of here now and be alone,” she says.

He raises from his seat immediately. “Of course, Swan.” Offering her his hand, he asks, “Allow me to walk you home? Or at least to your vessel.”

She takes his hand and slips out of the booth, too, and replies, “No, Killian.”

His smile fades a little, and a trace of hurt surprise ghosts over his features. “No?” he echoes, his confusion evident.

She presses her lips into a smile and shakes her head once. “No,” she repeats. “I'd like to be alone... with you.”

Killian's eyes widen, and he stares at her in disbelief. “You mean...”

“Take me to your quarters,” she clarifies, and he doesn't reply at first. His unexpected reaction leaves her perplexed... or the lack thereof; she has to admit she surely expected more enthusiasm from Killian _about-bloody-time_ Jones. Or hasn't she made herself clear enough? “What's wrong?” she wants to know, suddenly feeling insecure.

He seems to sense that – and why is she not surprised? – , and as if he wants to soothe her inner Lost Girl, he reaches for her hand. “Well, actually I was hoping you'd allow me to...” he pauses for a moment and swallows, obviously nervous, before he finishes, “to court you properly.”

Brushing his lips over her knuckles, he searches her gaze, a little insecure himself now, because in spite of her development over the past two weeks, he'd be a fool to pretend her issues have vanished just like that. And Killian Jones is no fool. He knows that part of her will always have difficulties letting other people come close, letting herself grow close to them, making herself vulnerable in doing so. And yes, she has told him that she wants him... wants _to be with_ him, he hasn't forgotten that, he will _never_ forget that... but maybe she still isn't ready for a relationship out in the open for everyone to see.

Her eyes have a barely decipherable expression, and she's chewing on her lower lip. “And by _courting_ ,” she interrupts his thoughts, “you mean... dates, flowers, romantic strolls in the moonlight, holding hands... the whole thing?”

“Aye,” he replies slowly, carefully, “but, of course, if you're opposed to any of this–”

She pulls her fingers from his hand and lays them against the side of his neck, right above the collar of leather jacket in a tender gesture that takes him by surprise. Leaning forward, she brings her mouth to his ear and whispers, “I insist on every single sappy thing, and you better get me the biggest heart shaped box of chocolates you can find for Valentine's Day.”

Killian is thrilled to feel her lips graze the shell of his ear, and even more thrilled by her words. And even if he isn't sure about her remark about some special day for chocolates, he gets her message loud and clear: she wants the _real thing_ , is ready to embrace it with everything that comes with it. He has to wet his lips before he can answer her, because they're so dry.

“I don't know what that is,” he replies smoothly, “but sure.”

“Take me to your quarters now, Captain?” she asks with a soft tease and a cheeky glint in her eyes.

He tilts his head and cocks his eyebrows, easily slipping into their banter. “If the lady insists.”

 


	5. Epilogue

_I wanna be home again and feeling right_

  
  


He feels elated, almost weightless as he climbs the stairs to his room, the woman he loves, has loved for a long time, following him on his heels. His feet don't seem to touch the ground, because this doesn't seem real, it's more like a dream – most of what happened in the last twenty-four hours feels like a dream, actually.

Emma Swan has told him she wants him, she wants _to be with_ him, and now, after they returned to Storybrooke, she's acting on it. When they entered _Granny's Diner_ , where her entire family and the entire town, basically, were waiting for them, she took his hand in hers before she walked inside, for everyone to see, and didn't let go of it until she hugged her parents. She has told him she wants to be _alone_ with him, and she has agreed to let him court her properly. Yes, she really and truly wants to be with him.

Good form would have demanded, of course, for him to court her properly _before_ their relationship went any further, to take her out for dinner or a dance before taking her to his bed, and Killian wouldn't have dreamed of doing it any way but the right way. But she has expressed her wish _very_ clearly, and who is he to deny her what she so obviously wants?

So yes, he's elated, but also nervous, because he knows this step they're going to take will change his life for ever. He's nervous, because in spite of everything that has happened since she found him at the docks in New York, in spite of the casual intimacy and displays of affection she granted him and the words she said to him, back in New York and downstairs at the diner, mere five minutes ago, he's _still_ anxious to see if she'll stick to it. She has accepted Storybrooke as her home, of that he's sure. But their relationship – is she really ready for this, or does she only _think_ she is? Ready to open up on every level, to let go of all her inhibitions and take the ultimate leap of faith of really letting him in, and _not_ only in a physical way? Ready to allow _him_ to show _his_ vulnerability? And what if – despite the good intentions she has, of that he's certain – she isn't, in fact, ready for all this and retreats into her shell again, at least partly? Will _he_ be able to recover from that?

“You alright?” her voice suddenly startles him from his swirling thoughts, and he notices that they're standing at the door of his room, his fingers firmly closed around the key.

He turns to look at her, and Emma smiles so gently and openly at him, so calmly... it's almost like she's reading his mind or simply sensing his worries and trying to reassure him, and suddenly he feels a bit lighter and returns her smile. “Of course, love.”

He looks down at the key in his hand and then back at her again, and she raises her eyebrows and nods in encouragement. Finally, he can get his fingers to move and unlocks the door. Swaying out his arm invitingly, he motions for her to get inside and follows right on her heels as she does. He closes the door behind him and puts the key on the small dressing table, drawing a deep breath.

Emma turns around to look at him, and both are standing there motionless for a moment. She scrutinizes him, drinking in every sparkle in his eyes, every line of his features, every shadow on his face and every crease on his forehead. The mere ghost of an incredulous smile is tugging at the corners of his mouth, and his expression is a nothing short of adorable mix of awe and insecurity that touches her deeply; his expression mirrors her own feelings, after all. Finally, he clears his throat and opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Emma interrupts him quickly, because she knows already what he's going to say.

“Don't,” she whispers with a single shake of her head, and he raises his eyebrows in question, confusion adding to the mix of feelings on his handsome features. She specifies, “Don't ask.”

He licks his lips, as if he's trying to find the right words to reply, but apparently her addition hasn't done anything to clear his confusion. Emma sighs, because yeah, words have never been her forte, and so she takes off her jacket and drops it carelessly to the floor to show him what she means.

“Yes, I'm sure,” she explains, having anticipated his question; the blush tinting the tips of his ears is proof enough that she was right. “I want this, and I want you,” she continues and steps closer, drawing a deep breath. “And I need you to stop being a gentleman right now,” she demands.

His eyebrows tick up again. “And why is that?”

She takes a step closer and lays a tentative hand on his still leather-clad arm. “Because we're in the bedroom.”

Killian shakes his head, as if he's trying to clear off some cobwebs, and suddenly there's his full-bloom, brilliant, rakish smile. “Oh, you'd be surprised.”

Now it's her turn to frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he tilts his head, “Being a gentleman in the bedroom...” His voice drops a nuance before he goes on, “...probably doesn't mean what you think it means.”

He raises his hand and touches one of her locks, never taking his eyes off hers as he lets it slowly run through his ringed fingers. His gaze is intense, a mix of emotions and predatory promises, and she feels heat rising in her stomach. Suddenly, she finds it difficult to breathe. “And what _does_ it mean?” she asks and thinks he must be aware of her quickened heartbeat, as she hears it so loud herself.

He nods and lets his tongue peek out to glide along his bottom lip lasciviously. “You're about to find out.”

Emma exhales slowly. “Well, then show me.”

He takes a step back, letting her hand fall away from his arm, and shrugs off his leather jacket; it falls to the floor not far from where hers has landed. She smiles in eager anticipation, and he reaches out for her, combing his fingers into her hair and pulling her near by the back of her head – firmly, but not without quickly scanning her eyes. She follows his pull eagerly, and in one fluent move curls her fingers around the lapels of his waistcoat to anchor herself as he pushes forward and locks his lips to her own. It's the first time he initiates a kiss, and _holy shit_ , that man can kiss. Not like she didn't know that before (because that first kiss in Neverland? Yeah, she _did_ have her major difficulties handling it); but the physical confidence he displays now in the way he's claiming her mouth with his lips and tongue has something heavy settle deep inside her, like a weight that's pulling at her with invisible strings, urging her legs to yield. It's breathtakingly seductive, and she holds on to his waistcoat like to dear life. Killian wraps his other arm around her, pulling her body flush against his, and she feels her baser instincts kick in and take over.

Eventually, they have to break apart and come up for air, a moment that Emma hates, because really, she could continue kissing him forever; on the other hand she loves it, loves seeing the expression in his eyes, that enticing mix of wrecked, bashful, and _you-ain't-seen-nothing-yet_. They are leaning their foreheads against each other, both almost paralyzed for a second.

“A good start for sure,” she finally teases a little breathlessly, and he chuckles. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and almost purrs, “I wonder if you can top that.”

His eyes darken at her barely veiled challenge, and for once he doesn't have one of his polished replies for her; he lets his mouth speak for him in another way instead. Emma wraps her arms around his neck as the next kiss is about to literally sweep her off her feet. She reciprocates, gives as good as she gets, and her fingers grasp at his hair, pulling slightly, eliciting a growl from deep in his throat that makes her toes curl.

“Too many clothes,” she gasps against his lips and brings her hands to his chest, her fingers blindly fumbling to unbutton his vest while she fuses her mouth to his again. His hand and hook are resting against her hips while they continue to kiss, his fingertips burning against the patch of skin above the waistband of her jeans. In her mind, Emma thanks her fairy godmother (briefly wondering if she actually _has_ one) that he's wearing one of the waistcoats with fewer buttons today, because her lack in finesse is as blatant as her lack in patience right now.

When she's reached and undone the last button, she tries to push the garment from his shoulders, but that's simply not possible as long as they're glued together, so he takes a step back, reluctantly letting go of her mouth, to shrug it off. For a moment, they stand at a hand's breadth distance between them, looking at each other and enjoying the sight of the other one's disheveled hair, flushed face and kiss-swollen lips. Emma is the first one to break the moment.

“Much better,” she comments with a cheeky smile and steps forward again. He leans in, expecting another kiss, but before their lips touch, she ducks her head to the right and brings her mouth to the side of his throat, enjoying his little gasp of surprise. She can't help but hum in contentment at the feeling of his warm skin against her lips, the scruff making for an exquisite tingle. She kisses along his neck, and his scent is making her dizzy as she noses her way down.

Killian lets his head fall back, his fingers subconsciously flexing against the skin of her hip. His voice is wrecked. “Bloody hell, Emma...”

“Hmm?” she murmurs in question and nips at his Adam's apple.

“You have no idea what you're doing to me,” he manages to get out in a strained voice.

When she finally speaks, her warm breath is like a caress against his sensitive skin, making him shiver visibly. “Something I've been wanting to do for a long time,” she admits.

He leans back a little to look at her, and she stops what she's doing, eyeing him questioningly. Immediately she understands that he doesn't trust his ears, and honestly, after all of her running and hiding, avoiding and denying she can't really blame him for being a little more than taken by surprise by her willingness to open up like this.

He tilts his head in an adorably bashful way. “Really?” he asks incredulously.

She smiles. “Yes, really.”

Then Emma takes one step back, out of his embrace, and crosses her arms to pull her turtleneck sweater over her head and toss it away; the last thing she sees before the fabric blocks her view is the flash of blue as his eyes widen. She stands before him in her bra now and delights in his enraptured expression, looking at her with his mouth gone slack, but it's not lewd or greedy or anything, it's more an expression of incredulous wonder and enchantment, like that of a child looking at a Christmas tree maybe for the first time.

She smiles and motions vaguely to his torso, still covered by his dark navy blue shirt with the grey floral patterns she would never in her wildest dreams have associated with Captain Hook of all people, and admonishes softly, playfully, ”Your turn.”

Suddenly, Killian is all tense again, but only for a brief second. Because now is the moment he has to make the dreaded decision, the one he's always had weighing on his mind whenever he dreamed of getting together with Emma in an intimate way. He knows he's handsome – _devilishly handsome_ , in fact – and he's well aware of his undeniable physical appeal and the way it affects her. But he's even _more_ aware of the one defect that has been tormenting him for hundreds of years, the one that he often felt defined him (and to many people, it _did_ ). Oh, it's not that any of the women he's been with in the past – a fair amount of them – has ever complained about it; on the contrary, most of them found it even appealing, the inherent danger adding to the thrill of being in the bed of a pirate captain. He never even wasted a second thought on whether he should or shouldn't take off the metal attachment that provided him with his moniker, and they always liked it.

But Emma... she isn't one of them, a woman who doesn't mean more to him than a mere exciting pastime. She means the world to him. He doesn't want to take her to bed as Captain Hook, he wants to do it as Killian Jones, and even though for a moment he hesitates, afraid she might be put off by his defect, he ultimately decides that he, too, has to take a leap of faith.

When he reaches with his right hand to take off the hook, Emma immediately understands what he's about to do and tries to stop him with her own hand on his, _“Don't.”_

Only when Killian freezes she notices his questioning, slightly alarmed look, and she could slap herself when she realizes that maybe _that_ came out completely wrong. Maybe it made him think she's repulsed by his scars and mutilation, when nothing could be further from the truth. Unfortunately, it's not like she's been very sensitive about it in the past, she thinks, a wave of guilt washing over her when she remembers all the occasions she's made thoughtless and flippant remarks about him lacking a hand.

“I mean,” she adds hastily, “you don't _have_ to. Not on my account.”

He looks at her skeptically, his blue eyes shadowed for a moment by that type of doubt Emma knows so well... not a doubt about the other person, but about _oneself_ ; that ugly, nagging voice that has been her companion for far too long, like a parasite living in her soul, always sneering, _but how could anyone want_ you _?_

“Hey,” she says firmly, “when I said I wanted you, I meant I wanted _all_ of you.” He remains silent and licks his lips in an obviously nervous gesture, and she clarifies further, “I meant there's no part of you that I _don't_ want.”

Killian raises his hand to rub an invisible spot beneath his ear and finally nods. “Good. Then...” He swallows and looks at her with determination. “If you allow, I'd prefer to take it off.” When she frowns questioningly, he adds, “No walls tonight. No armor.”

She huffs a nervous little laugh. “That sounds scary.”

“Aye,” he simply replies. “It is.”

Emma draws a deep breath and nods with a smile. “Okay. No walls and no armor.”

So he firmly grasps his hook and twists it with a click, detaching it from its brace so he can take it off and deposit it on the desk underneath the window. Then he unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, standing motionless for a few moments, looking at her from underneath his long eyelashes. She lets her gaze wander across his body, admiring the strong lines of his torso, the firm planes of his stomach and the broad shoulders. His arms are well-toned, and the generous dusting of hair is something she never used to think she could get attracted to – and she doesn't even know if she'd find it appealing on other men, but that doesn't really matter now, because she's here with the only man that matters – Killian Jones, and he's simply gorgeous.

The leather sheath that normally holds his hook covers his left forearm up to his elbow and is held by a complicated looking combination of leather straps that lead up to his shoulder. He reaches up and loosens them, impressively deftly with one hand, but not really surprising at this point, because so far she has barely see him failing with any task. He has to pull a bit on the rigid leather brace to get it off, but finally his arm is uncovered, and Killian immediately – probably out of habit – drops it to his side and holds his wrist down, as if he's trying to keep it out of her sight.

But Emma reaches out for his forearm, silently praying for him not to shy back. She searches his eyes, hoping she can convey encouragement, and almost holds her breath when her fingertips brush over his skin. A muscle in his jaw ticks, but he doesn't flinch or look away and allows her touch, and so she curls her fingers around his forearm and raises it slowly, gently, and relieved that he follows her soft pull. She doesn't even look at it, never taking her eyes off his, as she carefully touches his scarred wrist to her face. He's watching her silently, his slightly parted lips giving him an expression of wondrous disbelief again, as she caresses his skin with her cheek. She thinks back to that night back in New York, when she watched him in his sleep, and the blanket had slipped from his arm, uncovering his maimed wrist, and how she asked herself how the scarred skin would feel under her touch. It feels warm and soft and smooth, just like the rest of him, and she feels a deep gratefulness that he allows her to see him where he's vulnerable.

Killian's Adam's apple bobs when he swallows hard, and his eyes sparkle when she slightly turns her head to the right and presses a tender kiss to his marred skin almost reverently. The blunt end of his stump is numb, but the skin of his inner wrist is as sensitive as on his right arm, and when he feels her soft lips on his skin, his eyes flutter shut, and he can feel tears prickle behind his eyelids.

Emma sees the raw emotions on his face – relief, joy, sadness, gratitude – and, deeply moved by them, realizes that she has barely any choice but to fall in love with this man. Before she can think any further of that, or get scared by it, she lets go of his wrist and wraps her arms around his neck, raising to her tiptoes for a kiss. His eyes fly open, almost startled by her move, but he immediately encloses her in a passionate embrace, welcoming her lips. His body is warm against hers, and the hair on his stomach surprisingly soft and silky against her skin. The heat between them rises quickly as they kiss, and it feels like they can't get close enough to each other – at one point, he bends his knees and dives down to wrap his arms around her hips, scooping her up, and immediately she wraps her thighs around his hips and holds on to his shoulders as he carries her over to the bed.

Carefully, he lets her down to stand on her feet again, and they never stop kissing, hands roaming everywhere, caressing, exploring, marveling. Emma can't seem to get enough of running her palms over his chest and stomach, enjoying the feeling of his body hair against her skin – the one on his chest is more coarse and wiry, the one on his stomach narrowing down to a dark path disappearing in the waistband of his denims more soft and smooth like silk. She wants – _needs_ – to feel more of it, and so she reaches behind her back with both hands and unclasps her bra, slipping it off in the blink of an eye and molding herself against him again. It feels incredible, the warmth of his skin and the tickling caress of his hair one of the most sensual things she's ever felt. He gasps audibly when she presses her bare breasts against his torso.

“Gods, Emma...” he murmurs against her lips.

“Touch me,” she whispers in response and leans back a little, so he can look at her.

He does so, with his mouth hanging open, and this time, behind the pure incredulous adoration and wonder she reads something else in the midnight blue depth of his eyes, something all-consuming and scorching, a burning hunger; very similar to the one she feels churning deep in her own stomach. She swallows when he slowly raises his hand to her chest after a moment, and her nipples harden at the mere anticipation of his touch. But then he turns his arm and merely brushes the back of his hand between the valley of her breasts, slowly stroking down along her sternum and over her stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Just when she's about to get really impatient, because _seriously_ , she would expect a little more _pillaging and plundering_ from a pirate captain, his fingers grasp the button of her jeans and pop it open. The breath she lets out is almost one of relief as he finds her zipper and pulls it down.

She smiles as she takes over and pushes the pants down over her hips, making quick work of toeing off her boots and losing the denims altogether. The color of his eyes grows even a nuance darker, if possible, and she feels pulsing heat between her legs.

“Fair's fair,” she says and reaches for the button of his jeans now, because damn, it looks like if she doesn't take matters in her own hands, he'll just stand there looking at her for hours. Not that the way his eyes roam over her again and again isn't hot as hell, but she desperately needs more now.

Her fingers tremble a bit when she fumbles at his button, and she can feel the muscles of his abdomen clench as her knuckles brush against his skin, but otherwise he holds completely still. When she has them open, a little tug is enough to have the denims fall from his slender hips, and like she did before, he quickly gets rid of them. Emma highly appreciates that his underwear of choice are boxer briefs and not some other sort – not that she has ever thought about it – as they highlight his assets well enough and don't do anything to hide his desire for her. Automatically, she reaches out to touch him, but he stops her with his hand at her wrist.

“Not so fast,” he admonishes hoarsely and runs his fingers up her arm. “Get on the bed, so I can worship you properly.”

Emma bites her lip and smiles, because _of course_ he would say something like that. What thrills her the most about it is the combination of old-fashioned words and the firm, almost commanding tone. Someone has clearly woken up from their earlier enchanted stupor and seems ready to take over the helm, and she can't wait to find out about that _gentleman-in-the-bedroom_ thing. A wave of desire floods through her veins as she climbs on the bed and shifts to the side to make room for him to join her, and he follows immediately, lying down beside her.

She lets her head sink on the soft pillow and reaches out for him with both arms, pulling him down with her. Killian follows eagerly, diving in for another deep kiss she feels all the way down to the tips of her toes. Honestly, she could lie here and keep kissing him for hours, slowly simmering in the heat created between their bodies, fueled by their lips and tongues and hands finally caressing and exploring what they both dreamed of for so long. But eventually, she feels again that restless impatience that just craves... _more_.

Before she can even start to squirm, as if he has read her mind (or probably he's just feeling the same), his mouth leaves hers and wanders to lay hot, lazy kisses all along her jaw and throat, and she presses her head deeper into the pillow, arching her long neck into the touch of his lips.

As he wanders lower, he murmurs hoarsely, “I have dreamed about this so many times,” before his lips close around one of her nipples, eliciting a moan from her and causing her to arch off the mattress. His hand gently cups her other breast, brushing his ringed thumb over the erect peak a few times while her fingers entangle in his hair, tugging slightly, and her eyelids flutter shut.

He growls deep in his throat, and Emma can feel the vibrations reverberate in her entire body and soul as his mouth travels down across her ribcage and her flat stomach, leaving behind a path of scorching heat. For a moment, his lips and hand seem to be everywhere, and with her eyes closed, this sensation becomes even stronger. He slides further down along her body, his weight making the mattress move, and she opens her eyes again to look at him when she feels him curl his fingers under the elastic of her panties on one side. She smiles and eagerly lifts her hips, adding her own fingers on the other side and helping a bit, as he doesn't have his hook on to tug them down properly. Once the fabric has passed her hips, it's easy for him to peel them off, and she spreads her legs invitingly to accommodate him.

He brushes another kiss over her abdomen and climbs between her thighs, smiling down at her, slowly caressing her left leg down to her knee. Then he nudges her gently to plant her foot on the mattress, and she does the same with the other leg.

“No dream could ever come close to this,” he declares almost solemnly before settling down, bowing his head to her center that's already aching for him.

“ _Oh God,”_ she breathes and closes her eyes again the moment his tongue touches her most sensitive spot.

She didn't expect this, but then, she should have, because he even _said_ it: he wants _to worship her,_ and it's clear now what he meant by _being a gentleman in the bedroom_. Now Emma has let men do this to her, but she was never particularly fond of extending this game, she always saw it more as a means to an end, to fire up her libido quickly and get to the good stuff. Mostly, a few licks did the trick, and if a guy tried to linger a little longer – which happened rarely enough – she always used to grow impatient soon. Because – apart from the fact that not many men were really _good_ at this – as soon as it got more slow and thorough, it always started to feel _too_ intimate, and _that_ always made her feel vulnerable. And being vulnerable was never something she was good at.

But right now she doesn't feel the immediate urge to hurry this part up, not at all, because – again – _holy shit,_ that man _can_ kiss. It's true, she has thought often before that his mouth should be outlawed – even before she had ever felt it anywhere on her – but she's understanding only now how illegal it _really_ is. He uses his lips and tongue equally, playfully, sensuously, and damn, even his teeth – and _God,_ he's _really_ good at this. She moans and wants to melt into the mattress, her hips heaving in their own accord to meet his moves.

He hums in appreciation against her heated flesh, and she almost fucking loses it, and _now_ impatience is getting the better of her.

“Come here, please,” she pants, because really, where's the point in hiding now how wrecked she already is? “I want you inside me...”

He stops his ministrations to press a kiss to the tender skin of her groin, against the madly thrumming vein there. “Patience is a virtue, Swan,” he murmurs and flashes her a cheeky grin that elates her even more against her will. Honestly, she should have expected _that_ , too... it might or might not be a delicious sort of payback for the endless patience she had compelled from him. He even might plan to make her beg, nothing less than what could be expected from a pirate – and really, not an unpleasant prospect _at all_.

She huffs in – not completely feigned – frustration. “I thought you were being a gentleman in the bedroom,” she all but whines, “doesn't that mean giving your lady what she wants?”

He chuckles darkly, and the sound sends a fresh wave of arousal through her veins. “Oh no, love,” he contradicts, a devilish spark glinting in his eyes. “That means giving your lady what she _needs_.”

Emma shivers in anticipation. “And what is it that I need?”

His expression shifts a little and grows softer, less playful. “To be taken care of,” he replies in a deep, almost soothing tone, “To be uncovered.” She swallows and just looks at him with wide eyes, and he asks in the most sincere voice, “Trust me?”

That is not really a question, even if it terrifies her. She draws a deep breath and nods. “Yes.”

Without further reply he lowers his head again, and somehow she can't help thinking she has maneuvered herself into something really frightening, on the other hand she feels absolutely safe with him. She lets her head fall back again and closes her eyes.

Killian is enchanted, there's no more appropriate word. Never would he have dared to hope that she could be so forward, so openly showing her desire and giving up control at the same time. Because yes, this here is about falling and catching, trusting and reaching out and touching – touching her mind, her heart and her soul, showing her that he's not just going to do what's necessary to give her satisfaction so that he in return can take what he needs. He's determined to show her that he's into this for the long haul, that he's going to stay and lead her and follow her everywhere she wants. He still can't believe his luck, and part of him is afraid that he's going to wake up any moment from this wonderful dream of Emma Swan splayed out before him on his bed, naked and defenseless, letting him taste her. But then her soft, rhythmic moans assure him that he's not dreaming; they ebb and flow and come in sync with the strokes of his tongue, the press of his lips.

Her body is moving in the rhythm he sets with his ministrations, and he pays close attention to her various reactions and responds to all of them adjusting his pace and intensity. At some point, he can tell by the urge in the sounds she makes and the firmer tug at his hair, that the tension is building up in her, that she's almost _there_ , almost... and he slows down. Her moans become laments, but she doesn't really protest in earnest. He can feel her impatience, sure, but in the end, Emma follows his lead without trying to push, and he's in awe of her willingness to let go and give up any control, of this display of utter trust.

He repeats his game, relentlessly, brings her high again to the verge of release, has her teetering there for a bit and then retreats again, his scruff scraping along her inner thighs and at the edge of her sanity. She's getting the hang of it, he can feel it, she settles into his rhythm – tenses when he works her up and relaxes again when he soothes her, and even though she softly complains every time he denies her the ultimate push, he knows she's enjoying this.

Emma does enjoy it, but it's a fine line she's balancing on, a line between pleasure and torment. All the sensations that are currently assailing her – it's almost too much to bear. Yes, she's practiced this before, and she mostly enjoyed it as an effective, quick way to work her up and give her that first release really fast, so that she could enjoy toying around for some more. Yes, she's used to take what she thought she needed – but this is so much more, it's what she never knew she _really_ needed... it's like Killian said, being taken care of, _really_ taken care of, and not just giving in to her most urgent desires. He is meticulously working the tension off of her, the ever-present pain and loneliness she never really forgot, he's slowly opening her up, and she can feel all sort of _things_ , broken pieces of her, fall into place with every time he makes her relax after an almost-peak. It's like he's peeling away layer after layer of her covers until she feels raw and exposed, but in a freeing way... and he still continues, showing her that what he discovers is precious. That _she_ , Emma Swan at her core, with all her flaws and scars, is precious to him. And it starts to dawn on her that this – _this_ is really the good stuff.

So, she's lying there, sweat prickling on her skin, not really knowing what to do with herself and all the bliss – physical _and_ emotional – that's got her in its hold. The shivers that ripple through her are a mix of arousal, impatience, rapture, and something deep and huge and powerful that frightens the shit out of her but is also impossible to ignore. And she doesn't _want_ to ignore it any longer. The moment she lets herself fall completely, lets go of the last bit of internalized inhibitions, casts them out, she feels completely free and home and surprisingly not weak at all. Her own voice rings in her head, _Love is strength_ , and so maybe she didn't fully believe it back then, but she surely believes it now. A tear prickles behind her closed eyelids.

Without being aware of it, she makes a noise between a sigh and a sob, and suddenly he stops his ministrations, giving her a second to breathe. Emma opens her eyes and looks down at him just to find him watching her, his brow a little furrowed in the slightest worry, and so she smiles, hoping to make him understand that he has absolutely nothing to worry about. He smiles back, a dazzling smile, the happy sparkle in his eyes nearly blinding her, and she can't bear it for one more second not to be able to feel his heart beat against hers, his weight pressing her down, anchoring her. And so she reaches for him with both arms, an almost pleading gesture beckoning him near, and it has nothing to do with her wanting him finally inside her.

“Come here, please,” she says again, her voice a little rough around the edges, but also unspeakably soft, “I need to feel you.”

He leans his scruffy cheek against her thigh and continues to gently touch her, his fingers resuming the caresses where his mouth stopped working her only moments before. “Are you not feeling me right now, love?” he asks tenderly, only the tiniest tease in his voice.

“In my arms,” she simply replies, aware of the vulnerability in her voice, but completely unafraid of it.

He smiles, and his eyes light up even more brightly, if possible. “Say my name?” he pleads.

Only now she realizes that she hasn't spoken his name since they've entered this room, and she's aware of why that is. One nighters always were as far as Emma Swan ever went, and calling her respective partners by their name would have created a nearness and intimacy she neither needed nor wanted. That old habit of hers has always been one of many she used to keep her walls up and protect her heart, but it feels like none of it is necessary any longer, and _God_ , she is so fucking _tired_ of both. And like she once said to him, she's also tired of living in the past, tired of being held prisoner by her own fears and insecurities. Besides, she remembers, she promised it half an hour ago – a promise made to him and also to herself: _No walls and no armor._

Emma swallows, because her mouth is so dry, and she wants to savor it, saying his name like this for the first time, saying it with emotion and devotion in her voice, addressing her lover.

“Killian,” she whispers, feeling her lips pull into a smile and that tear finally trickling out of the corner of her eye.

She doesn't have to ask again, he glides up along her body, briefly hovering above her before he lowers himself into her waiting arms, and it feels even better than she imagined, his warmth, the smoothness of his skin and the coarseness of his hair, and his scent engulfing her as their bodies are pressed together now from chests to hips. She wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him nearer, and with a barely perceptible shift of his hips he brings himself into the right position, the feeling of his hot tip grazing over her sensitive center making her tense in eager anticipation.

His eyes lock with hers as he slides in slowly, oh so slowly, and for a moment nothing else exists in the world. He takes his time, obviously he can't be bothered to rush this moment, because yeah, _patience is a virtue_ , and this man has proven to be one of the most virtuous men she ever met, so he's allowed to savor this. And he _does_ savor it, savors every single warm inch of her welcoming him home, until he's fully settled and stills to give both of them time to adjust to the feeling of their bodies finally being joined like their souls have been long before.

Emma exhales. _“Killian,”_ she says again, and he tilts his head while his hand cups her cheek and his thumb finds the wetness at the corner of her eye and brushes it away.

“Emma,” he replies and pulls back slowly, almost tentatively, just to slide back in again, and she hisses, it feels so good. He repeats the move and soon finds a rhythm of gently rocking back and forth which she adapts to immediately, as if they have done this a hundred times already, as if they were always bound to end up exactly here.

“Move faster, please,” she urges breathlessly after a while, and he doesn't have to be told twice.

He picks up speed and force, the sounds she's making and the way she's pulling him closer encouraging him to do so. Soft pleas and curses are falling from her lips as she lifts her hips to meet his thrusts. He has worked both of them up with his tormenting foreplay, so that the need for release is almost overwhelming, and he's relieved to see the same frenzied urge in her eyes he feels rushing through his veins, so he holds back only the tiniest bit, until he can be sure she's not going to be left behind. When her short nails are digging into his back and her body starts to tense and tremble, he lets go of every restraint and lets his raw, animalistic instincts take over.

Her inner muscles are finally clenching around him as she cries out his name again, and it doesn't take but a few more thrusts for him to reach the point of no return, too. And as they both go completely still again, the room falls quiet except for their breaths that come out more like pants.

Emma's eyes are closed while Killian is watching her intently, like he has done for the whole time, the sight of her letting go and falling apart beneath him unlike anything he's ever witnessed before, and he knows it's something that will be ingrained in his brain forever. Her face is soft and relaxed now, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, but in these few seconds his nervousness wells up again. _What if..._

But any insecurity is blown away when she opens her eyes and they're soft and deep, even if she doesn't smile yet, and he can feel her fingers running along his ribs in an absentminded caress that tells him more than anything what he needs to know about her state of mind and feelings.

She swallows before she finally says, in a still breathless voice, _“Wow.”_

Killian nods his head once, mesmerized by her eyes, because that one word expresses his own feelings perfectly well. “Aye,” he replies almost solemnly.

Her eyes widen in feigned surprise. “What, aren't you gonna be smug about it?” she teases softly.

And just like that, he relaxes completely – seeing her so absolutely comfortable and at ease with him, with _them_ , with what just happened, that she can even tease him about it... that's everything he ever could have hoped for.

He looks down at her and raises a devilish eyebrow. “Oh, you think we're already done here?” he asks cockily.

Finally, her lips pull into an expectant smile full of mischief. “We're not?”

He tilts his head. “Not unless you claim it was a one-time thing.”

She laughs, a carefree, wonderful sound. “I don't have all that willpower,” she then replies and wraps her arms around his neck to pull him down for a kiss.

There's a faint trace of her own taste on his lips, reminding Emma of what he just did to her, did _for_ her, and unlike what she might have expected, it's really erotic to her. Her whole body is still tingling, honestly, and it embarrasses her a little that she's already thinking that she craves more, that she can't get enough of this, of _him_. But what shocks her even more is that _this_ for her also encompasses the emotional intimacy that's binding them, the tenderness, the nearness – the cuddling. And _that_ has always been something she hated and never did. The caresses and embraces, the whispered words of tender nonsense – she doesn't know how that works.

Normally, after sex, she always used to want a bathroom, clean clothes, and her bed to herself. Not awkwardly lying next to another sweaty body she didn't plan on ever seeing again, at least not naked.

But this here – and it doesn't even surprise her – is different, like everything has proven to be different when it comes to Killian Jones. She doesn't care that she's not in her own bed, she doesn't care that they are both sticky with sweat or that his eyes are looking at her like he's staring right to the very bottom of her heart and soul. She doesn't even care that his fingertips are resting against her face and that his thumb is slowly caressing the apple of her cheek. She doesn't want a bathroom, clothes are obsolete anyway as they're _very clearly_ not done here yet, and she doesn't want to be in her own bed by herself.

Oh, and she's planning to see _a lot_ of Killian Jones in the future, and yeah, she hopes they will be naked on _many_ occasions.

No, she's _exactly_ where she wants to be. Where she _belongs_.

She shifts a little, and immediately, he lifts his weight on his elbows and moves off of her, which causes him to slip out. With a quick flick of her wrist she takes care of the mess that makes between them. Both are lying on their sides now, facing each other, and Killian has tucked his left forearm under his head, while Emma rests on her right elbow, looking down at him. The thought crosses her mind that she could study his face for a very long time and would still not get enough of it. Her lips pull into an involuntary smile, and she shakes her head at how besotted she feels and probably looks. And really, _besotted?_ She didn't even know that word existed in her vocabulary.

“What?” he asks with an amused smile crinkling the fine skin around his eyes when she remains silent.

“You lied to me,” she says quickly, before this gets too sappy, assuming a playfully severe tone.

For a moment, he's completely thrown off track and frowns ins confusion. “Excuse me, love?”

“You didn't come to New York for a fresh start,” she tells him, and he averts his eyes for a second, confirming her suspicion. “You came for _me._ ”

“Oh. Well.” Killian lifts his hand to her wrist and starts running his fingers up and down her arm in an almost casual, feather light caress causing a pleasant tingle on her skin. “Who says these are mutually exclusive?” he then asks. “A fresh start, isn't that what we're doing?”

She presses her lips into a smile. Of course he was too clever to lie to her, he had always had unwavering faith in her super power. “Probably.” She tilts her head down to press a kiss to his bare shoulder before she tells him softly, “Thank you for not giving up on me. On this.”

“This?” He echoes and frowns in confusion.

Emma nods. _“This,”_ she confirms, “me, coming back to Storybrooke.” She draws a deep breath before she adds, “Coming back to you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “ _Back_ to me?” A twitch around the corners of his mouth is accompanying the slight irony in his voice.

She snorts a little laugh. “You know Storybrooke wasn't the only thing I was running away from.”

“Mhm,” he hums in vague agreement and lifts himself on his left elbow, not bothering to hide his stump from her sight any longer. He takes one of her slightly disheveled locks and lets it run through his ringed fingers, marveling at the cool, silky feeling against his rough skin. “You're home now,” he says, his voice low and warm, “that's all that matters now.”

Emma fixes her eyes on his. “I am,” she replies firmly, almost solemnly, hoping to convey with the seriousness in her tone and her eyes that, again, Storybrooke isn't the only thing she's talking about. But she has a suspicion that he knows, that he knew all along. Because yeah, apparently she _is_ an open book to him, the last two weeks have proven that all over again; she can just as well accept it as a fact.

“You know what I'd like to do?” she asks, following a spontaneous idea.

And _just like that_ , there's the pirate she remembers. Killian lifts a _clearly_ indecent eyebrow and smirks sinfully. “I can imagine quite vividly, love,” he drawls, and another shiver ghosts down her spine when she thinks of all the things she wants to explore with him tonight and tomorrow night, and the night after.

But instead of giving away anything, she rolls her eyes. “That's not what I meant.”

He switches his tone immediately. “Well, anything your heart desires,” he replies, “you shall have.”

She remembers he said something similar the evening before, when they were talking about their dinner choices. This is all sorts of sappy, and his words should sound ridiculously clichéd, but Emma knows for sure that he _truly_ means those words, _in every way_ , and that almost takes her breath away.

She smiles. “I'd like to spend some time on your ship,” she tells him.

To her surprise, he looks completely flabbergasted. “What?” he blurts out.

A little startled by his reaction, she shrugs. “I just thought it would be nice to go sailing and not... I don't know, heading on a journey to danger and death?” she suggests.

“That is indeed a pleasant thought,” he replies reluctantly and fidgets with his fingers on the sheet, slightly distracting Emma when she remembers the sinful things he did to her with those fingers only shortly before. But then she remembers that very often, that gesture of his is a sign of nervousness.

She frowns and asks, “Hey, what's wrong?”

“I'm afraid the _Jolly Roger_ isn't...” He hesitates, searching for words, before he continues, “...available at the moment.”

“Available?” she echoes. “What does that mean, was it damaged when you came over?”

Killian sighs and sways his head in negation. “It means my ship's not here.”

She is confused. “But... when you came to New York, you said you left it here?”

He scratches behind his ear. “Not exactly,” he contradicts slowly. “I... I said she was left behind.”

Emma recalls his slightly odd word choice; back then, it didn't raise any suspicion. “But where?” she blurts out. “Where is it... she?”

He averts his eyes. “I don't know.”

This thing gets more and more mysterious, and she can't imagine why he's being so evasive after being so open with everything; it's an unsettling feeling. How is it possible that he doesn't know where his freaking ship is? “What? Why? I don't understand.” Impatience sneaks into her voice. “Where did you leave your ship?” she wants to know.

He sighs again, clearly uncomfortable now, and she wonders why that is. “In the Enchanted Forest,” he finally tells her, “Before coming back for you for the first time.”

Emma sits up. “But how did you do that, if you weren't brought back with the others, with my mom's curse?” She leans a little forward, searching his face. “I always assumed you only managed because you had your... magical ship?”

He seems to squirm. “Well, your assumption was not entirely wrong, love,” he replies cryptically.

She throws her hands up in an exasperated gesture. “Oh dammit, Killian, why the secretiveness?” she blurts out. “Just tell me! Tell me what happened!” When he still hesitates, she adds softly, “Whatever it is, it won't change anything between us... about this.” She reaches out to cover his hand with hers, to soothe his apparent uneasiness. And she realizes, it's true: whatever happened in the missing year, whatever he did – what's important is who he is now, and what he means to her.

Killian sits up as well and averts his eyes again. “Even though the _Jolly Roger_ is made of enchanted wood, she isn't capable of traveling through realms without a portal,” he explains.

“Yeah, I know,” she interrupts impatiently, “Which is why we used the magic bean to get to Neverland.”

He nods. “Precisely.” Then he fixes his eyes on hers again, a determined, but also anxious expression in them. “There was no other way for me to open a portal than to purchase a magic bean.”

“What? You make it sound like you can buy them anywhere.” She shakes her head. “They aren't easy to come by.”

He tilts his head and averts his eyes again. “They are, if you have something of value to trade.”

Emma is clueless. “And what was that?”

In a casual voice he replies, “As luck would have it, I ran into someone who was in possession of a magic bean, but in need of a vessel.” He falls silent, draws a deep breath and looks at her, his face almost expressionless, refusing to give any more hints.

There's a rather long pause in which she's trying to process what he's saying, struggling to figure out with her brain the meaning of his words her heart already knows; when it finally dawns on her without room left for any doubt, her eyes widen, and her voice is almost toneless. “You traded your _ship_ for me?”

Killian is tempted to give her a seemingly nonchalant answer and play it light, as he doesn't want this to weigh on her, to _scare_ her... but then he thinks – _hopes_ – they're past that, and he opts for a sincere, almost apologetic _“Aye.”_

She looks away, apparently needing a moment to process the thought, and he prays that of the obviously struggling emotions within her fear is not the one to win. Finally, she seems to have regained her ability to form coherent words. “But why... why did you never say anything?” she questions, only the tiniest hint of reproach in her voice.

“For what purpose?” he asks back. “Putting even more pressure on you? Making you feel guilty or somehow... indebted to me?” He tilts head, looking at her intensely now, like he's staring right down to the bottom of her soul, where her deepest fears and insecurities are located. “Giving you even more reason to run?” he adds calmly.

 _You're something of an open book,_ the memory of his voice, a little cocky then, ghosts through her mind. _Alas, I know you better than you know yourself._ And this should _really_ make her want to run, and some time ago, it would have. But not anymore. Emma straightens her back and focuses on him, still silent though.

“Remember when I told you I would win your heart without any trickery?” he asks in a soft voice and leaves it up to her to draw the conclusion that comes full circle now. She's already told him that he won her heart, and now she has even the proof that he kept his promise made a long time ago, back in the oppressive jungle of Neverland – that he's done exactly that, but without any of the seductive, manipulative tricks he, a pirate, surely had up his black sleeve.

She swallows and shakes her head in disbelief, still having difficulties to wrap her mind around the dimension of what he really did, what he sacrificed, without any guarantee that she'd even remember him, let alone reciprocate his feelings. “But that ship... was your home,” she argues. “Don't you... don't you miss it?”

“Not as much as I missed you,” he replies, the truth and simplicity of his statement hitting her right in the pit of her stomach, like one of his truth bombs. _You don't have a home until you just miss it,_ her own words, ultimately proven to be true to her by her failed attempt to find it in New York. And he missed _her_ , more than anything else. More than his ship that had been his home for hundreds of years. He's telling her that _she_ is his home. And _he_ is... he–

Emma looks away for a moment and snorts a nervous, choked little laugh, because yeah, this is fucking frightening, because it's _huge_. “I hate you.”

After studying her expression for a moment – scared and a little lost, but also hopeful – he raises his hand and cups her face, urging her with an only very gentle pull to look at him again. When she does, he strokes his thumb over the apple of her cheek, almost drowning in the depths of her green eyes, glistening again with unshed tears.

Then he tells her softly, “I don't think you do.”

And she remembers what she thought shortly before – that she has barely any choice but to fall in love with this man, and she realizes that was wrong. Because, to be honest, she doesn't have any choice at all.

It's already too late.

 


End file.
